


Diamond in the Rough

by LuckyLadybug



Category: The Alamo (1960)
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyLadybug/pseuds/LuckyLadybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after the end of the film. Graciela returns to San Antonio following news of the defeat at the Alamo. But of all people to still be alive, she finds her nemesis, Emil Sande. As they deal with an ever-changing world, they may discover truths about each other and themselves that they never imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Alamo

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine and the story is! I thought that Emil's scenes and him being knifed happened very soon before the 13-day siege of the Alamo began. (And it's hard to imagine him holding on that long without modern medicine, man.) The movie has all kinds of historical inaccuracies, of course, so I can't really rely on history to be of much help, and anyway, I think (and hope) that Emil and Graciela are both fictional additions to the story. I'm never very comfortable writing for real people.
> 
> Emil is a mercenary and a wretch, but I felt sorry for him when he was killed during the fight over the weapons he had stashed away. I mean, people are trying to take his stuff. What's he going to do but fight back? Anyway, I didn't feel that he deserved to die. And I also saw something in him that I liked. No, it isn't just that Wesley Lau played him, because I don't feel this way about every character he plays. And seriously? Emil has some hilariously snarky comments in the film. I love writing snarky characters.

Graciela had cried when she had heard the news of what had happened at the Alamo. She had cried long and hard, thinking of all the brave men who had perished fighting against the Mexican army. And of course, especially Davy Crockett.

She had tried to hope that maybe there had been some survivors, that maybe possibly he had been wounded but was still alive. She had gone at once, desperate, praying, pleading for that outcome. But it was not to be.

Crockett was definitely dead. So were Jim Bowie and all the rest. General Santa Anna called it “a glorious victory”.

So would Emil Sande, had he still been alive.

Graciela frowned at that train of thought. Why was she thinking of him? He was out of her life; she would not have to worry about marrying him to get any of her family’s property back. He had stumbled across Davy and the others trying to take the stock of weapons he had hidden for the Mexican army under the church. During the fight, Davy had killed him with Bowie’s knife.

They would not have known about those weapons if Graciela had not told Davy. And what good had it done them in the end? Yes, they had heroically withstood the Mexican army, but now they had all fallen.

She wanted to be logical and acknowledge their sacrifices as inspiring many other Texans to take up their fight as the war raged on. Part of her did. But those feelings did little to ease the immense ache in her heart.

Graciela had never felt more alone. It seemed that everyone she had known was now dead. Now she stood, silent and solitary, in her family’s home. It, and the land her family owned outside of town, was hers again now. And yet she had no idea what she would do with it. Perhaps tomorrow she would be thinking more clearly.

“Señora! Señora!”

She looked up with a wild start at the young boy’s voice. Quickly she went to the door and opened it. She recognized the youth standing there; he had worked for Emil Sande.

“Yes?” she said in surprise. “What is it?”

“Señora, he’s asking for you.”

She could only give him a blank stare. “Who is asking for me?”

“Señor Sande. Please come, right away!”

Graciela gripped the doorframe as her equilibrium threatened to give way. “I don’t understand. He is dead. He can’t be asking for me.”

The boy shook his head. “Not dead—dying! He has been down with a fever for days. The knife wound is bad.”

“But Davy Crockett told me there was no doubt—Emil Sande is dead.” Graciela was not sure she could deal with another shock right now. And especially not this one. With Sande dead, she had come home thinking that at least maybe she could find a way to reclaim all of her property again. If he was alive, and could arrange something else before dying for real, she had little hope of regaining it. He would not do anything to help her, at least not without her paying a heavy price for said help.

The boy was insistent. “Señor Crockett didn’t know. Please come, Señora. He’s been out of his mind with the fever and he keeps asking for you!”

At last Graciela reached for her shawl and stepped outside. “Alright,” she consented. “I will come.”

But she could not help the cold bitterness growing in her heart. Of everyone who could have possibly survived the events of the past fortnight, why was it _him?_

****

Emil Sande was a wretched man, little more than a mercenary. He had intended to give his allegiance to whomever won the conflict, even though he had found favor with General Santa Anna. Graciela had wondered long and hard whether he had ever stood for anything or anyone other than his own monetary desires.

He had infuriated her, but when he had presented his reasoning for why she should marry him, she had been forced to admit to its logic. She would have gone through with it, had he not been stabbed during the fight and she had been sure he was dead.

She had thought all of her tears had been spent crying for men whose sacrifices had been noble and glorious. But when she was led into the expensive house and into the bedroom, and saw Emil’s flushed skin and wild, glazed eyes, some semblance of pity and sorrow rose within her in spite of herself. She had wept when she had been told of his death, although she had been sure it was only because so much had happened to her in the past days. His pathetic existence was not worth tears.

But the tears pricked at her eyes anyway. She sat next to the bed, looking into the frantic blue eyes. “I am here,” she said at last, not quite knowing how to address him.

“Graciela?” He reached for her, his clammy fingers brushing against her skin.

She shivered. “Yes, it is I.”

“Good.” Emil gestured to the nearby boy, who brought him some papers and a pen sitting on the nearby table. “Here.” Somehow he managed to dip the pen in the inkwell and scratch his shaking signature on the pages. “Take these. Your property is yours again, to do with as you like.”

Graciela’s eyes flickered as she accepted the precious documents. It looked like they were all in order. “What is this?” she queried. “Why?”

Emil coughed. “Well, it’s no good to me where I’m going,” he said dryly. “It might as well be good to someone. Why not you?”

She remained on guard. “What is the catch?”

“The catch is that you use it. Which I’m sure you’ll have no trouble doing.”

She continued to read through the sheets of paper. “It is truly mine?” She looked up, her eyes boring into his. “No one else’s?”

“Take that to a good lawyer,” he grunted. “He’ll tell you everything’s in order.”

Her eyes flickered. “Then I will do that.”

A faint smirk tugged on his lips. “. . . I suppose you heard that General Santa Anna won at the Alamo.”

Graciela stiffened. “I heard.”

Emil picked up on the added frostiness in her tone. “I’m sorry it didn’t turn out as you wished. You wanted that Crockett to win, didn’t you?”

She did not reply. Emil did not know about her and Davy, although he _had_ known that Davy had seemed to show an interest in her.

“. . . It didn’t matter to you who won,” she said at last. “The war still rages on, but I don’t imagine the victor matters to you now, either.”

Emil lifted a weak hand off the hand-woven blanket. “It doesn’t. Does that bother you?”

Graciela opened her mouth but then paused, considering her answer. “It bothers me when any man cannot decide whose side he is on,” she said. “You fought for nothing except money. What has it left you with in the end? Now you are dying, alone and forgotten. It would not have happened if . . .”

She trailed off. Her information had led to this. And her guilt likely showed in her eyes.

He was unsurprised. “Yes, I know about your betrayal, Graciela. I know you told Crockett about the weapons. I was knifed when I tried to protect them from theft.”

She stared at the papers again, scrutinizing them for some clause or loophole. “And you feel no desire to retaliate?”

“I’m a businessman, first and foremost. I’ve always found vengeance to be pointless in business ventures. It clouds the judgment.”

She shook her head. “So you don’t even stand for that.” Not that vengeance was a cause worth standing for, but it was _something_ other than indifference.

“. . . I learned a long time ago that the only way to get ahead and keep ahead is to stand for yourself.”

Something about Emil’s tone struck a chord of sadness in her heart. “That’s a very lonely philosophy,” she said.

“I don’t have time to be lonely. That’s pointless too.

“Anyway, Graciela, what you said a moment ago, about me dying here alone? It’s not quite true. There’s the village priest, the boy Paco, and well, you, of course.” He smirked again. “Your mastery of mathematics has failed you.”

She looked away. “. . . But you have no loved ones. Was that also pointless, to surround yourself with family and friends? True friends, not simply business partners?”

Now Emil’s expression darkened. “I have no family, just like you. And that wasn’t my choice. As for friends, there are no true friends, Graciela. There are only people wanting to take advantage of you and everything you’ve rightfully earned. You can only rely on yourself.”

It was not what she had expected to hear. She frowned. “Do you believe that because you are that way and so you think the same of others?” Certainly he had never been a true friend to anyone. She had always known him to take advantage of others.

“No.”

The flat answer stunned her. “Surely you are not saying you think you are not that way.”

“I am that way. I’m that way to survive, Graciela.” His eyes narrowed. “I learned it long ago, from others who are as I am now.”

Suddenly it dawned on her. “. . . You’re saying you were the one betrayed,” she realized. The utter bitterness in his tone made so much sense now. It was strange to think of, but maybe he actually had been a decent person at one time. Perhaps he had even liked and trusted people, instead of despising them as he seemed to now. Had his worldview become so warped because of being turned against so many times?

He did not seem inclined to confirm or deny it. It had been difficult for him to speak throughout their conversation. Now he drew a rasping, pained breath. His eyes fluttered; he seemed to find it hard to keep them open.

“. . . There’s no reason for you to stay now. I’ve returned what’s yours.”

Graciela nodded. Perhaps he did not want her to stay and see his life slip away like this. She was not sure she wanted to, either. And yet, for some reason, she was also not sure she wanted to leave him when he was so near to death.

Maybe because he, of all people, was her last link to the life she had known. When he was gone, there would be no one left.

But, as per what she felt he wanted, she rose. “I will leave then, if you wish.”

Emil hesitated for what seemed far longer than necessary. “. . . Yes.” He paused again. “Goodbye, Graciela.”

“Goodbye.” She still did not know what to call him. After hesitating herself, she added, “Thank you.”

He nodded and turned away, weak and painful. His eyes sank closed.

She drew her breath in sharply. As the priest came to examine him and whisper a prayer, she had to venture to ask. “Is he dead?”

The priest shook his head. “No; only unconscious. But it will not be long now, I’m afraid.”

The boy, Paco, looked sad. “I found that he was alive,” he said quietly. “After Señor Crockett and the other rebels left, I went to him.” He shuddered. “I’d never seen anyone killed with such a knife before. But then he moved his hand and groaned. I ran for help.”

“It must have been frightening for you,” Graciela said in sympathy.

Paco nodded. “We brought him here. The doctor couldn’t do much for him. The doctor believes he will die today.”

“And will you go back to your family?”

He looked down. “To an orphanage, Señora. I have no family.”

That troubled her. “Well,” she said at last, “I will need help with my family’s land. Perhaps we can work something out.”

He looked up, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Thank you, Señora!” he exclaimed.

She managed to give him a smile.

Her gaze traveled to the bed one last time. Emil was quiet and still. He had not regained consciousness and likely never would.

Graciela turned, the papers clutched in her hand as she walked slowly towards the door. Emil Sande had continually talked of what he felt was pointless. But he had lived a pointless life. Had he been aware of that?

Somewhere, amid the bitterness of his words, she had the feeling that he had been. Perhaps, even, he regretted it. But with his cynical outlook on life, he had determined it could not have been any other way.

And, Graciela had to admit to herself, she felt some semblance of pity for him.

Maybe the tears she had shed when she had believed him dead days before had not all been for her wildly changing life.

Maybe they had also been for a life lost that had never really been lived.


	2. Everything I've Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emil Sande has not died, but now he is conflicted in his worldview. Having been haunted by Davy Crockett's ghost for days did not help that in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my leeriness over writing for real people, Davy Crockett has turned up. But heck, I figured his portrayal in the movie was probably mostly fictional anyway. And I just couldn't resist having him interact with Emil some more. Their banter in the movie is gold.
> 
> I debated over whether this segment should timeskip so much. But somehow I felt this was really how I wanted it and how it should be. Things from before will be revealed in flashbacks, as depicted here, so nothing will be lost in the telling.
> 
> However, after I finished writing this story on Livejournal, I still felt there was too big of a gap. Hence, I wrote an Interlude piece, which I am now going to attach right above the second chapter proper.

**Interlude**

There were so many people.

They had gathered to . . . to what? To mourn him? Never. To scorn and scoff? Quite possibly. To steal from him? Almost certainly.

Their voices echoed oddly and far away, although they were near. He sensed them more than saw them. When he _did_ see them, the images were distorted and wavy and foggy.

And he felt them. He felt their hands on his forehead, touching his cheek, bothering his chest.

The pain was excruciating. He was fatally wounded; no one could survive a wound from a knife that size. But death was slow in coming. It teased him, tormented him, making him believe it was taking him and then leaving him a while longer.

And always with the people.

They knew he was dying, too. And they lingered, vultures that they were, waiting for him to die, waiting to take everything away from him as everything had been taken from him before.

_“How is he today?”_

_“Very bad. He won’t last beyond today, I’m afraid.”_

_“He looks dead now.”_

_“He’s not.”_

Yes, that was a pity, wasn’t it? They were so impatient for him to be gone.

But . . . it wasn’t as though he could stop them if they stole from him now. Why were they here? Why were they waiting for him to die? What manner of cruelty was this?

They wanted him to know they were there. They wanted him to know what they were going to do. That was the only logical explanation.

_“If you want to administer the Last Rites while he’s still alive, Father, you’d best do it right away.”_

_“I’ll wait a bit longer.”_

Father? The village priest was here? Was he in on the scheme? Or was he an innocent bystander, unaware of what the other people were planning?

_“What a wretched, twisted man. It’s a fitting ending for him.”_

_“Oh no. No, I feel sorry for him.”_

_“You would, Father.”_

_“He’s so bitter and angry. He’s suspicious of the entire world. What he was crying out last night, about everyone being against him and out to steal from him? Oh, I feel so sorry for him.”_

He didn’t need anyone’s pity. He had lived his life as he had seen fit. He had fought and he had clawed and he had struggled against everyone who was out to get him. And until he had been taken down by that knife, he had succeeded.

He had no regrets. _No_ regrets.

Graciela. . . .

No, not Graciela, either. She had betrayed him, just as everyone had betrayed him.

People were cruel and people were false and people were heartless. All people, everywhere. Kindness was a fraud. Everyone was always only out for themselves. He had learned that the hard way before bitterly taking the philosophy to heart and proving that he was not a naïve dog to be trampled on and kicked. He had fought back. He had always fought back. Anyone who had tried to take advantage of him from that point on was sorry.

Why did these people stay? Why were they changing the bandages and bathing his skin and seemingly trying to get his temperature down?

Why were they keeping him alive?

They wanted something else from him. They wanted him alive so that they could demand favors. Or maybe so that they could present themselves to the town as being such good, pious citizens. Self-service was the real motive behind any apparent good will.

He stayed suspicious. He snapped and snarled and growled and demanded. If he pushed long enough and hard enough, they would reveal their true colors. They would show him that all of this seeming mercy was an act and stop torturing him with a fantasy that could never be real.

But they never showed him. Their patience stretched and occasionally shattered. Their tempers cracked and now and then broke. Yet still, their kindness lingered and never faded.

Either they all knew how to bide their time and wait for what they wanted to the lengths of which he had never seen . . .

. . . Or possibly, unbelievably . . . their goodness was genuine.

And that was something he had long ago given up on ever seeing from anyone.

**Scene Two**

The man with the butter-colored hair leaned against the glass counter on one elbow, thoughtful, finding it surreal.

He should have died, really. Everyone knew it, most of all him.

He had teetered between life and death for days, the delirium twisting and warping his senses. After Graciela had left him that one evening, he had slipped into an unconsciousness so deep everyone had assumed he would never emerge from it.

And yet, some time later, he had. And ever since then, he had slowly but steadily improved.

News of his recovery had not been kept quiet. In a small area, that would have been impossible. Rumors had been flying all over the place, every day. This was the first time he had been out, but he had taken care not to encounter anyone along the way. He was not ready for that as yet. He needed this time alone to reflect.

His shop was just as he had left it. It was clean and well-kempt; nothing was missing. He had been certain he would come and find it an utter disaster area. Thieves and looters were often on the loose. He had had to defend his belongings against the likes of them in the past.

He was unsure what to make of any of this. For weeks Paco had looked after the store, making certain it was tended to. And at home, Emil had been cared for by people who had not expected payment.

Father Fuentes had brought some of them, but others had come on their own. They were people from the town or from neighboring villages. A couple were nuns, but the rest were common citizens. Emil knew some of them, while others had been strangers to him.

Emil was not generally liked in town. Some feared him, while others outright hated him. And some were quite indifferent. It stunned him that anyone had come without even needing a push.

There must be something they wanted, the suspicious part of his mind insisted. He had demanded several times to know what their price was for helping him, if not monetary. Certainly he had not been an easy patient to deal with. He had been very difficult. No one would endure what he had put them through if they did not want something in return.

But the answer he had been given was that if the Good Lord wanted him here a while longer, they were willing and wanted to help bring it to pass. One or two of them had admitted that while they did not like him, they assisted because they knew it was the right thing.

_“Perhaps,”_ Father Fuentes had told him on one of his visits, _“this is meant to change your outlook on life and on your fellow man.”_

Emil had scoffed at the time. _“Come now, Father, you know I’ve seen too much of the sordid side of human nature. And I’ve committed more than my share of sins. It’s too late for me to change. I don’t even know that I could anymore.”_

But the Father had been undaunted. _“You’re alive, my son,”_ he had replied. _“When there is time, anyone can change. Even men who have committed far worse acts than you.”_

At the time, Emil had had no answer for that.

Perhaps it was true, Emil thought to himself now. Perhaps he could change. But did he want to? Being cynical and bitter wasn’t fun, but it was realistic. He did not want to fall into the trap of naïveté and trusting people again. People were cruel and selfish by nature. They would betray their closest friends or even their family if they could make a profit on it. That had been drilled into him time and again by false friends until he had been left so crushed that he had hardened himself against it, becoming one of them.

Then into his mind came the memory of the people who had stayed with him, nursing him back to health. Even Paco had stayed, and he had certainly been under no obligation to do so. None of them had asked for anything in return, only for Emil to get well.

Alright, so now he was well. But right now he was also more confused than anything else. What was he going to do with himself now? The experience had left him sobered. Somehow he could not see himself getting right back to work as though nothing had happened. And yet of course that was the most logical thing to do. That was what he _should_ do.

A gasp outside the window brought him up sharply. He turned, coming face-to-face with Graciela. She was white as a sheet.

She was the one person whose reaction he had heard nothing about. She had not been in town, he had been told. She had been trying to work with her family’s property outside the town limits.

The property he had given back to her.

That had certainly been a foolish thing to do. As a businessman, he could not help thinking that. And part of him regretted the loss. He surely would not have done it if he had thought there was any chance he would live.

But the other part, well . . . he wondered if he regretted it so much after all. Particularly when it was Graciela.

What a ridiculous thought.

Slowly she opened the door and advanced into the room. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I realize there must be some mistake. For a moment you looked so much like someone I knew, I believed it was true.”

He pushed back the wide-brimmed hat casting shadows across his face. “I was never officially declared dead, Graciela.”

She rocked back. “No. . . .” She shook her head. “You can’t be him. I’ve been away from town, tending my family’s land, but I would have heard . . .”

“I was never officially declared alive, either,” Emil interrupted. “No one has seen me out until now. Of course, knowing how people gossip, they’ve been imagining up all sorts of nonsense. I think some of them are saying I’m dead and buried in my own house to keep the secret of my demise.”

She still seemed to half-believe she was in a dream—or a nightmare. She took one step forward, then another. “But you truly are . . . ?”

“Very much alive.” He spread his arms. “The only sign anything even happened is an unsightly scar in the middle of my chest.”

He was still vain enough to detest that scar. But at least no one would see it, in that location.

“And how do I know you are not just a figment of my imagination?”

“Easily. Just take my hand.” He held it out to her. “Although I have to wonder why you think you’d be imagining up phantoms of me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, she grabbed his hand. At the feel of flesh and bone, she jerked away. Pain flashed through her eyes.

“What is it?” Emil asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is it too much for you?”

“Yes,” she retorted. “It is. So many men died defending what they believed in. They valued their lives, but were willing to lay them aside for a higher cause.

“But you . . . you squandered the time you had here on Earth. Now you’ve been given more of it and it means so little to you! You talk about it so flippantly. And I . . . I don’t understand why you were spared when a man like Davy Crockett perished!”

She spun around, shaking, her heart shattering into pieces. Emil stood at the counter, staring at her. She did not want to speak and he did not know what to say.

It was tempting to just dismiss her, to say something further callous that would make her leave. In the past, he would have. But this experience _had_ begun to work on him, to change the way he had been, even if he had not really shown it to her. He was in such a bewildered muddle over it all that he was not sure how to think or how to act. He had fallen back on something familiar, the old reactions he knew how to handle.

“. . . I . . . honestly don’t know why I’m alive, Graciela.”

Her eyes flickered at his sobered tone, but she did not turn.

“As far as I’m concerned, Crockett and those others foolishly gave up their lives for nothing. But . . . on the other hand, I almost did the same thing.

“I don’t feel flippant about my life at all. I’m grateful to be alive. I don’t want to do anything to endanger it; I never really did.”

He stepped a bit closer to her. “I don’t know if I believe in God, Graciela. If there is a God, I have as hard a time as you, believing that He would want me to stay around. Unless He just didn’t want to have to deal with me in His realm right now.” This was said with a bit of his wry sense of humor.

Graciela finally turned to face him, her eyes searching his. “That, I could believe,” she retorted. “You’re not fit for Heaven.”

“Am I fit for Hell then?”

She frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it has to be one or the other. Unless there actually is some sort of netherworld in between.”

She let out a sigh. “You are impossible.”

“Are you still upset that I survived?”

Again she turned away, gripping her arms. “I don’t know that, either. I never wanted you to be dead. I thought what a waste it was, for you to die when you hadn’t even accomplished anything other than to be successful with money. But I suppose that now you will simply go back to what you were doing before.”

“I can’t say what I’m going to do.” Emil meant it. He needed time to think, to decide what he _could_ do. “But I imagine that’s true. Accumulating wealth is what I know how to do. It would be a waste not to do something with that knowledge.

“You know,” he mused, “you never did give me your answer on whether you would marry me. Not that it’s important, now that you have your property back.”

She froze. “If I had said Yes, it would have been for logic only, as you surmised.” She looked over her shoulder. “I don’t love you. I could never love a man such as you.”

“Well, that’s alright. I don’t know that anyone really loves anything other than money and themselves.”

Something about his words made her pause. “. . . In the condition you were in before, you would have said you knew it.”

Emil paused too. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose I would have.”

Graciela tilted her head to the side. “Something has started to change in you.”

He folded his arms. “Good or bad?”

She shook her head. “I can’t say.”

“Well,” Emil returned, “I can’t either.”

Graciela nodded. “. . . I suppose now I know why I haven’t heard from Paco.”

“Paco?” Emil raised an eyebrow.

“I offered to let him work for me when you were dead.”

“I see. Yes, that would be why you haven’t heard from him then.”

“Is he well?” She searched his eyes.

“He’s fine,” Emil assured her. “I don’t mistreat him.”

“It wouldn’t be good for your business, I suppose,” Graciela said with a sardonic smirk.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Emil retorted. “He can’t work if he’s ill.”

Graciela sighed and turned to leave. “. . . I’ll wish you well,” she said. “I should be going.”

“I could escort you,” he offered.

“No, thank you.” She walked to the door and opened it. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” Emil watched her depart, then leaned on the counter once again.

That had been a strange and unexpected conversation, albeit not as odd as some he had had previously.

After he had sunk into a coma, he had conjured up Davy Crockett’s ghost to converse with. He had no idea why; maybe his subconscious had just tried to pester him in whatever way possible.

Or maybe the ghost had been real, he thought with dripping sarcasm. Maybe Crockett had decided to pester him in whatever way possible, feeling that almost killing him with that blasted knife had not been torture enough.

In any case, Crockett had greeted him with, _“Well, you’re holding your own. I thought I’d killed you for sure.”_

Annoyed, Emil had answered, _“You almost have by now. Have you come to gloat?”_

Davy had held up his hands in protest. _“Nothing doing. Actually, I came to check on you, being responsible for your condition and all. And I was right surprised by what you did for Flaca.”_

_“Flaca?!”_

_“Oh, sorry. Graciela. She said her friends call her Flaca.”_

_“A silly, childish name. Graciela is a name with class and breeding. There’s no need to call her anything else.”_

_“Maybe you’re just jealous because she never told you her special nickname.”_

Crockett had smiled mischievously as he had said that, and Emil had only been further irritated.

_“Don’t be ridiculous. She means nothing to me. She’s merely part of a business deal I was transacting.”_

_“But you are close enough to her to call her by her Christian name instead of her surname. I wonder what that means.”_

_“Nothing! It means nothing!”_ Emil had tried to calm himself, but Crockett seemed determined to push his nerves.

_“And you were awfully anxious to get her here about those papers. You didn’t have to give them to her yourself, after all. Did you feel like you couldn’t be all nice and peaceful unless you tidied up that business before the end?”_

_“That isn’t it at all. It was simply more efficient that way.”_

_“You know, maybe Flaca doesn’t care at all for you, but I wonder if you have just the teensiest smidgen of caring for her. And come to think of it, maybe Flaca cares more for you than I realized. She did tell me she wasn’t in any danger being around you. And she cried when I told her I’d killed you, even though she figured it was just because of how so much had been happening to her.”_

_“You’re talking nonsense. No one would cry over me.”_

_“Well, probably not. But now I’ve got to wondering.”_

_“Start wondering on someone else’s time.”_

_“Right now, time is all you’ve got, Friend.”_

_“I’m not your friend.”_

_“I did sort of get that impression.”_

Mercifully, Emil had passed into complete oblivion at times, hearing and seeing nothing. But every now and then he had risen back to the in-between stage, and he almost always found Crockett waiting, or observing, or whatever it was he was doing.

_“You’re still here?”_ he remembered having said at one point.

_“Seems I can’t rest in peace until I know what’s going to become of you,”_ Crockett had answered. _“I guess because I put you in this mess.”_

_“I guess,”_ Emil had grunted.

He did not want to say that he had gotten used to it, but he had at last sunk into a state of resigned acceptance. Crockett had been like a nagging conscience, prompting him of things he had long forgotten or abandoned. Even now, what he had said continued to live in Emil’s memories and trouble him.

Almost the last thing he recollected before finally reviving in the real world was something Crockett had told him.

_“Now, see here, Emil. If you do pull through this, don’t give Flaca any more trouble, you hear? You did maybe the only decent thing you’ve done in years by giving her that property back. Don’t spoil it.”_

Emil could not even remember what he had responded, if anything.

He stayed in the shop until after dark, thinking. At last he pushed himself up, crossed to the back door, and slipped out into the cool desert night.

It might take him a long time to sort through his confused and conflicted feelings. There was his old bitterness towards people in general. His doubt on the existence of God. The reawakening of long sealed, naïve ideas that at least some people were basically good. His concerns over the direction his life had taken.

He had done the only thing he could, he told himself in frustration. He had been left for dead by the men who had betrayed and killed his family on the road to their proposed settlement. And he had fought and clawed his way back to civilization, taking over his father’s merchant business with a ruthlessness his father never would have dreamt of. He would not allow himself to be tricked and killed as his father and mother had been.

And yet, he had almost been killed anyway.

He paused at the edge of his property, one hand on the gate. What was the right thing to do? He honestly did not know any more.

“Señor Sande?”

He looked up with a start at Paco’s voice. The boy was standing on the porch, uncertainty in his eyes and his stance.

“Are you coming in, Señor?”

Not sure whether he was relieved or annoyed at the interruption, Emil came through the gate. “. . . Yes.”

“. . . Are you alright, Señor?”

“Yes!” Emil barked in response, but frowned and hesitated. No one had asked him that, and meant it, in years.

He looked to the boy, who was shrinking back. “. . . Thank you, Paco,” he said, quieter. “I’m alright.”

He passed through the door and into the house, leaving the kid staring after him in amazement.


	3. Rally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graciela is determined to continue her work to rally people to the cause of the revolution. Emil, still uncertain what to do with himself, ends up debating it with her in public.

It was a cool day in San Antonio. Emil had long ago gotten used to the heat, but the breeze was nice.

He was walking back to his shop after the daily siesta, a tradition he found useless and detracting from business, but something he had nevertheless been forced to put up with from the villagers.

Everyone in town was very much aware of his recovery by now. Life had gone back to business as usual, although it seemed to him that some people were more aloof than they had previously been. Perhaps it was that more and more of them were aligning themselves with the cause of Texas’s independence and they knew that he had been against it.

Of course, it had not been so much that he had been opposed to the idea as it was that he had found favor with General Santa Anna. He had to go where the money was, after all. Truthfully, he cared very little whether Texas was a Republic or part of the United States or Mexico. As long as he continued to make a living, he was satisfied either way.

He no longer even knew if he still had the General’s favor. He doubted the man had time to so much as think about one lone merchant, with the war having increased in intensity since the Battle of the Alamo. And even though in the past Emil would have been doing all that he could to learn the truth, and to get back in the General’s good graces, he had done nothing as yet.

What could he offer right now, anyway? He had no more weapons in storage. And he did not know if he wanted to go to the trouble of finding more. The war could be over before he could ever deliver them. He doubted it would go on very long.

And once it _was_ over, he had intended to align himself with whoever won. That was still his plan, really.

But that did not stop Graciela’s words from following him around. She had detested his lack of a foundation more than almost anything else.

Of course, what would she know of survival against all odds? Among other things, being out for yourself meant that it did not matter what causes you supported, as long as they were profitable for you.

But did he really want to be like the men who had murdered his family?

He stopped in the road, frowning at the thought. That had honestly never occurred to him. He was not a murderer. He was ruthless and cold and callous, but only as far as he had to be. He only killed to defend himself and his belongings.

But he _had_ become furious at Davy Crockett’s interference. In spite of his insistence to Graciela that he was not vengeful, he knew he had been angry and perhaps had even hated Crockett when he had cornered Crockett and his band of followers under the church.

And the weapons he sold would kill. If he did not care which side of the conflict they went to, then that mixed him up even deeper in the plot. Didn’t it?

He passed a hand over his face. Why was this happening to him? He had not seriously questioned his actions for years. He had learned to make excuses and justify himself. No one cared what happened to him, so why should he care what happened to anyone else?

There. That was the problem right there. While being nursed back to health, he had encountered people who _did_ seem to care what happened to him, and not for their own profit. That was what was making him wonder if his past existence had been wrong.

He would have surely died years ago, if he had given in to naïve thoughts then. He had nearly perished more than once when he had foolishly trusted people who had falsely acted as though they wanted to help him after he was all alone. Over time he had weeded out such feelings. Since then, his cold-hearted distrust had protected him and saved his life many times. It could not have been wrong.

The sounds of children laughing startled him back to the present. Two boys were running, tackling each other, and play-wrestling in the sand. One of them was the kid Crockett had tried so hard to get Emil to pay after he had carried the luggage up the stairs. Emil paused, watching their innocent game.

He had been like that, once, long ago. He did not like to reflect on the past, but he had been doing a great deal of it the past weeks. Maybe that was why he did not particularly like being around children—they reminded him too much of how he had been before he had discovered the dark side of humanity. And he knew that one day they would discover it, just as he had.

Crockett had been mistaken when he had thought Emil was unaware of Graciela’s nickname. Emil knew of it, but he cared little for nicknames. What had stunned him was realizing Graciela had told _Crockett_ the name. They had grown awfully close in so short a time.

It was strange, really, or perhaps ironic. He had met Graciela years before, when his family had stopped in San Antonio before continuing the journey to where they had hoped to settle in peace. They had played innocently, although not as roughly as these boys were doing, and had enjoyed their two days together. Then they had parted ways, not seeing each other again until Emil had returned to San Antonio a grown man and a successful merchant.

He had remembered Graciela but had doubted she would remember him, after so many years. She had, but soon had realized that he was a stranger to her.

_“The little boy in my memories, with the yellow hair and the bright smile, is gone. He is not you; you are not he. He is dead. I do not know who you are, with your cruel business tactics and your trickery. I do not **want** to know you.”_

He had been flippant with her, not explaining what had changed him or why. After all, it did not matter. He was what he was and she did not deserve an explanation any more than anyone else did.

Or at least, that was what he had told himself.

Just as he had told himself it was business when he took control of her family’s property and tried to convince her to marry him.

The thing was, the property had already, legally been his. He had not _needed_ to marry her. She would have needed to marry him to get some of it back in her name, but that was an entirely different matter.

So why had he tried to convince her?

Did he care about her? Had he cared then? Had he tried to convince her to marry him for the property because it was the only way he could think of to get her to agree, now that she despised him? Was that why he had become so angry when Crockett had seemingly interfered? He did not want Crockett to take her away?

He had known many girls throughout his life, but he had never been serious about any of them. Well, except maybe the first one after he had turned sixteen. He had not completely given up on humanity then. And their relationship had not worked out.

Why had he returned to San Antonio? Of all places, why there? There were others just as profitable. Had he wanted to see if Graciela was still there?

He frowned. Being knifed had really shaken him up. Now all of these preposterous questions were popping into his mind. He just wanted them to stop. He had already defined his existence and his worldview years ago. He did not appreciate it all being challenged. Annoyed, he turned away from the boys.

“Señor?”

He froze. The luggage boy had noticed him.

“Do you have anything for me to do today?” the kid asked in Spanish.

Emil shook his head. “Nothing today.”

“You will come for me when you have work?”

Emil glanced over his shoulder. The boy was looking up at him with hopeful eyes and that persistent smile.

“. . . Yes, yes, I’ll come,” he said at last.

“What about the other man? Will he come again?”

Emil raised an eyebrow. “What other man?”

“The one who spoke to you when I brought the luggage, Señor.”

Then it dawned on him. “No. He won’t be around anymore.”

“Oh.” The boy seemed disappointed. “Why not?”

“Because he’s dead.” It was harsh and blunt, perhaps, but Emil saw no reason to keep the truth from him.

Now the kid’s eyes went wide. He looked down, sad. “. . . How, Señor?”

“He died fighting. That’s all you need to know.” Emil did not care to go into all the details. He would rather extract himself from this conversation as soon as possible. It was too far removed from what he found comfortable. He was growing nervous.

“Come on,” the boy’s friend whispered to him. “Let’s go. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

The first kid nodded. “Alright, Señor. I’m sorry for bothering you.” He bowed slightly to Emil and hurried off with his friend, leaving Emil standing in the street staring after them.

Sighing, Emil massaged his eyes. That had certainly gone badly. And now his cold heart regretted it. Instead of calling the boy back, however, he continued to the shop.

****

He was unaware that he was being observed. From the second-story door of her house, Graciela frowned at the scene that had unfolded. As Emil walked on she turned away, shutting the door and crossing the room to her mirror.

He was still basically the same as before, judging from how he had dismissed that child. Not that she had really believed different.

She wondered if he had ever really been the boy she remembered from so long ago. Maybe she was remembering wrong and he had been cunning and manipulative even then. They had only known each other for two days. How well could anyone come to know someone else in two days?

It depended on the person, she supposed. It had not taken long at all for her to come to feel she knew Davy Crockett.

But she had felt she had known Emil Sande, until he had returned to San Antonio and had been nothing like her memories. Had he really changed so drastically?

His bitter words from when he had lain dying came back to her. He had no family. He had been betrayed by people he had trusted as friends.

What had happened to his family? She had met his mother and father. She should have asked him what had happened. She had been so stunned by his second revelation that she had not thought to inquire after the first. And perhaps too, she had distanced this Emil Sande so far from the cheerful, mischievous boy in her memories that she had momentarily forgotten they were ultimately the same person, somehow, someway.

She should not even allow her thoughts to stray towards him so much. When Davy had sent her away from San Antonio, he had hoped that she would use her command of words to inspire people to fight in the revolution. She had done that, and now that she had returned she intended to continue the work here. The Battle of the Alamo had certainly roused the people to action, but the cause could always use more helping hands and voices. And even though she was sure that nothing she could say would inspire anyone to act as much as the Alamo had, she was still determined to do her part.

Emil would scoff, naturally. He would wonder why she was pouring all of her time and energy into anything political. He would never understand what it was like to believe in anything other than himself and his money.

Frowning, Graciela turned away from the dresser. She needed to concentrate on what she was going to say tonight at the cantina, not on what Emil would think about it. What did it matter what he would think?

Of course, she still wished he could find something to fight for. And perhaps she was still comparing him to Davy. Perhaps, in her loneliness, it was only natural for her to latch on to the one person left from her old life—even if he was not at all the person she longed for him to be.

But she had no time to be lonely. She had work to do, both with the revolution and with her family’s land. She would be very busy from now on.

And, she was sure, so would Emil. He would do what he had always done best—make money.

Her eyes narrowed. May they each be very happy with the paths they had chosen! Never the twain would meet.

That was just how she wanted it.

****

Emil had no idea that Graciela planned to rally people to her cause that night. All he wanted when he entered the cantina was a stiff drink. But when he heard a familiar voice he blinked in stunned surprise. As he pushed open the doors he found Graciela standing near the bar, proclaiming her views in a loud voice. She had the attention of everyone there, albeit not their undivided agreement. Some supported Santa Anna, while others were indifferent all around.

Emil slid into the nearest available booth, watching and listening to her in spite of himself. Even though he really had no loyalty to either side of the conflict, Graciela’s determination was distracting and fascinating.

“Do you want to see our beautiful land remain under the rule of a tyrant? Santa Anna is not fit to govern Texas. You know of the Goliad Massacre. Three hundred and forty-two soldiers fighting for our freedom were abominably and senselessly killed this past March 27th. This was done under General Santa Anna’s direct orders! Is this the sort of man you want to have reigning over you, controlling all that you say and do? How can he be trusted?”

A waitress brought Emil a drink and he nodded to her with a warm greeting. He was not even sure she heard him over the cacophony of both increasingly favorable response and a few naysayers to Graciela’s speech.

“Stand up and be counted! There is no room here for indifference. Freedom is the right of every human being. Fight for your freedom! For your land! For your families!”

More cheers.

As the noise died down, Emil took a sip from his drink. He was half-tempted to challenge her, just to see what she would say. Only she knew of his true, mercenary designs, as far as he was aware. Everyone else simply believed he supported Santa Anna.

He leaned back. “So, what makes you believe that you’d really have these freedoms under a new government?” he said. “All governments are largely the same. And those running them care only about lining their pockets and making themselves look good.”

He was not fully sure what he was doing. He had not decided whether or not to try to return to General Santa Anna’s good graces, but putting down all governments would surely not help in that regard.

Graciela stiffened at the sound of his voice. Looking in his general direction, she responded, “That is only your own opinion, Señor. There are many who do not feel as you do.”

“And what proof have you to offer for _your_ opinion, Señora?” Emil smoothly returned.

“There are many examples.” Graciela walked to one side of the bar and then the other, silently imploring the patrons along the way. “There are many good men willing to do whatever they must for freedom, even to die if necessary. It is men of this caliber who have become the Presidents of the United States. And we can have the same kinds of men here.”

“But what proof do you have that these men truly seek the freedom of which you are speaking?” Emil persisted. “You can’t see into their hearts. For all you know, they’re power-seekers deep down.”

Graciela’s lips pressed into a thin line. “As you are, Señor?”

Undaunted, Emil just toasted her with his glass. “Power-seekers just want to survive in this world. They just happen to do so by climbing the social and power ladders. I am no better or worse than many of them.”

“We can do without your, or anyone else’s, power-seeking,” Graciela replied. “Now, a man who never sought such things was Davy Crockett. He only wanted freedom for all of us, even for you.”

Emil’s lip curled. He did not care to hear her praise Crockett to high Heaven.

“Yes,” he said. “Crockett certainly proved that when he thrust his compatriot’s knife into my chest.”

“Not without provocation, I am sure,” Graciela returned. Her eyes flashed with barely concealed anger.

Emil shrugged. “I didn’t attack without provocation, either.”

All eyes were upon the two of them by now. Every patron, as well as the staff, were intrigued by the conflict that Emil had set into motion. But Emil did not intend to push Graciela far enough to make her lose her temper altogether. He doubted she would in public, anyway.

He finished his drink and waved her on with his other hand. “But by all means, Señora, do continue with your original speech. I won’t interrupt again.”

 _“Thank you,”_ Graciela said with teeth clenched.

****

Emil kept his word; he remained quiet throughout the remainder of Graciela’s rally. When it ended, he slipped out of the cantina along with the other departures. He separated himself from them, adjusting his hat as he moved to go his own way.

It was only when he was alone that his arm was suddenly and violently grabbed. “What did you mean by making such a scene?!”

He turned, facing the furious Graciela. “Why, surely you weren’t bothered that much,” he said in the flippant tone she so despised.

She slapped him across the face. “You wretched man! You were trying to make me look foolish, weren’t you?! Well, it didn’t work.”

Emil laughed. “No, it didn’t. And that’s good, as it wasn’t my intention in the first place.”

Her hands flew to her hips. “And exactly what was your intention?”

“I was curious to see how well you would handle yourself,” Emil said. As he said it, he realized it was the truth. “If you’re serious about this, Graciela, you’re going to have to deal with many hecklers. And most of them will give you a much worse time than I did. If anything, I’ve only helped your cause now, as strange as that is to say. If you noticed, the people accepted you far more after our little confrontation. They were impressed by how you held your own against me.”

Graciela frowned, considering his words. “. . . I suppose you have a point,” she said at last, grudgingly. “But you weren’t actually trying to help me or my cause, were you?”

Emil started to walk again and Graciela kept pace alongside him. “No,” he admitted. “But I wasn’t trying to tear you or your cause down, either.”

“Would you have cared if you had?”

Emil opened his mouth but hesitated. Graciela gave a curt nod. “I thought not.”

Finding his voice, Emil protested, “That isn’t what my silence meant.”

“But you care for no one other than yourself,” Graciela said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

“. . . I said I didn’t know that _anyone_ cared for anything other than themselves and money.” Emil sounded awkward now. And he hated himself for it. Graciela had kept herself composed. Now, under her cross-examination, he could not do the same.

Graciela stopped walking and came to stand in front of him. “And you?”

“. . . I don’t know that, either.” Emil studied her eyes as she searched his. Slowly he leaned down, closer to her. Instead of moving away, she froze. But when his lips brushed hers, she came to life, pushing him back.

“What are you trying to do?!” she shrilled.

Emil straightened. “I was trying to answer your question.”

“You don’t love me. You aren’t capable of loving anyone any more than I am capable of loving you.” Graciela turned away, pulling her shawl closer around her arms.

“Crockett is dead. Are you going to pine for him the rest of your life?” Emil was not sure where that had come from. But as soon as the words tumbled out, he was not pleased with them.

Instead of becoming furious again, Graciela just gave a weak shrug and shake of her head. “We didn’t know each other for very long. I can’t say that I was in love with him. But the man I marry will be like him as far as his ideals are concerned.”

“Well, you won’t have much trouble finding one,” Emil grunted. “Your cause is collecting more supporters every day.”

“And I am glad. He would be, too.”

They fell silent for a moment. When Emil spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Why didn’t you move when I first stepped closer to you?”

“I don’t know. My mind went blank. I wondered what you were going to do. I did not expect _that._ ”

“You must have had some idea.”

“I certainly wasn’t giving you an invitation!” Graciela snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Being married to you would have been Hell.”

“Such language!” Emil’s voice was light again, unbothered.

“Oh!” Graciela looked away in disgusted frustration.

Another silence.

“. . . You know, for someone who wants nothing to do with me, you’ve walked with me almost all the way to your home.”

“And I wish I hadn’t!” Graciela retorted. “I will walk the rest of the way alone, thank you very much.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t be a gentlemanly thing to allow,” said Emil.

“You are not a gentleman,” Graciela spat.

“And I suppose Crockett was?”

“Yes!” Graciela stormed out ahead of him. “Goodnight, Señor Sande.”

“Goodnight, Graciela.”

Emil resumed walking, not following her. But, Graciela noted, he kept his pace slow until she ran up the stairs of her house and inside. Only then did he walk past at a faster speed.

She turned away, shutting the door behind her. What an aggravating man he was. He was nothing like Davy. He never could be.

. . . But why _had_ she walked with him all the way home?


	4. In the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emil is tense today, as he gives Graciela a lift through the rain. What are his true motives? Has he ever revealed them? Will Graciela understand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems this story is mostly a collection of dialogues and soliloquies. It's very fascinating and fun for me, and highly experimental.

It was never enjoyable, to be out in the rain after shopping. All of the packages would soon get wet, and the shopper would get wet, and there was a very good chance of being splashed on with mud before arriving home.

Graciela now found herself in the former predicament. The Texas rain was pelting down as she struggled to balance the various boxes and her bag, and she was doing her best to both dodge the puddles and keep hold of everything. When a carriage suddenly appeared from seemingly out of nowhere, she could only cry out in stunned alarm as she stumbled back.

“Stop the carriage, José.”

The horses whinnied and came to a halt as their lines were drawn taut. The passenger leaned against the side on one elbow, looking to her.

“Well, Graciela. I thought all of the villagers had run for cover by now. But here you are, out in the worst part of the storm.”

Graciela frowned as she looked to her nemesis. “You don’t seem all that concerned,” she retorted, still fighting against the forces of gravity as her packages swayed to and fro. “Why did you stop? Only to gloat?”

In response Emil gestured to his driver. “José, climb down and help the lady with her burden.”

José nodded and made his way to the ground. “I will put your packages in the carriage, Señora.” He reached and took the top two.

Graciela was unsure of what to think of this display. She could not say she was glad to see Emil Sande, but the carriage itself was certainly a relief. “. . . Thank you,” she said at last, stepping closer to the carriage. “It would go faster with help from two.” She gave Emil a pointed look.

He took two more packages from her, without exiting the vehicle. “I’m happy to help, Graciela,” he said. “I just don’t see any sense in all of us getting drenched.”

“Oh, of course not,” Graciela said with a roll of her eyes.

José and Emil quickly removed the rest of her boxes, enabling her to hurry to the opposite side of the carriage and climb inside. The only spot was next to Emil, but she accepted that without protest. As José hauled himself back into the box and rode off, Emil turned to her.

“So what’s in those packages anyway?” he asked with curiosity. “The latest fashions from Anita’s boutique?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” Graciela retorted. “Except for one frock, I was purchasing materials to help with my family’s land.”

“You couldn’t have your help do that?” Emil glanced at the steadily pouring rain. “Especially on a day like this?”

“The skies were mostly clear when I left,” Graciela answered stiffly. “And I had hired a carriage and told the driver to wait. But it was gone when I left the store.”

“Well, now, that’s a pity,” said Emil. “He must have had quite an emergency.”

“Or someone who could pay him more.” Graciela gave him a frosty look.

Emil rocked back. “Now, just a minute. Are you accusing _me_ of spiriting your carriage away?”

“You did it before.”

“On a clear night, when I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t leave you stranded in a storm.”

Graciela did not miss the edge that had slipped into his voice. Aside from inquiring into her feelings on marrying him, he had steadfastly avoided all topics concerning that night. “You’ve suddenly grown tense,” she noted.

He averted his eyes. “I’d just rather talk about something else.”

“Because of Davy?”

“Because of him, if you must know,” Emil growled. “But not entirely for that reason alone.”

And then it was her turn to feel tense and guilty. “. . . It was that same night when you were nearly killed,” she realized.

“Late that night.” Emil stared into the distance.

“. . . And you remained alive but mortally wounded for over two weeks before I even knew you had survived.”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how I managed that. I still don’t know myself.”

She turned further to face him. “I never intended for you to be hurt,” she said in all earnestness. “I didn’t even think you would be there.”

He turned back, searching her eyes. “You must have known there was at least that chance,” he said. “It didn’t bother you enough to keep you from telling Crockett anyway.”

“I didn’t want General Santa Anna to have your weapons. Davy and his men needed them more.”

“And you believed in their cause,” Emil added. “Let’s not forget that.”

She held his gaze. “Yes,” she nodded. “I believed in their cause. It is my cause too.”

“Oh, nevermind that.” Emil waved his hand in a dismissive manner.

The tension between them was thick and uncomfortable. Graciela shifted, her hands clasped in her lap. “. . . You haven’t said anything about your feelings before,” she said. “I know I betrayed you. But you never acted surprised. You even gave me my family’s land back in spite of it.”

“It repulsed me then. I didn’t want anything more to do with it.”

“That isn’t what you said that day.”

“And what did I say?”

Graciela looked down. “That it wouldn’t do you any good where you were going.”

“Well, that was true too.” Emil crossed his arms, his eyes mostly hidden, as always, by the shadow of that hat. For a moment he was silent, gathering his thoughts.

“No, I wasn’t really surprised by your betrayal. I knew Crockett had turned your head. And I knew you hated my ideas for those weapons. You wouldn’t have even found out if you hadn’t stumbled across my men unloading some of them into the church. But . . .” She could feel him staring at her. “I’ve wondered since then if what you did wasn’t even the least bit personal. Whenever we’ve run into each other lately, I’ve tried to find the answer.”

She jerked in sickened horror at the thought. “You think that I betrayed you because I wanted to get back at you?!”

“Well, it would make sense. After what I’ve seen of humanity, I’ve learned that even the most innocent-seeming person is capable of vengeance, under the proper circumstances.”

Graciela was unsure whether to strike him or pity him. And, she realized with a growing, unpalatable feeling, she was also unsure of the answer.

What if he was right? What if, in some dark part of her heart, she had wanted to return an eye for an eye after he had assumed control of her family’s land? What if some cruel part of herself had smirked a bit, relishing the thought of taking away something he had planned and counted on?

“You don’t even know, do you.”

She looked away. “No, I don’t. I never believed it about myself, but you make me wonder how well I know who I am.

“What I do know is that, since your return to San Antonio, you have been repulsive to me. I despise and detest you.” She faced him again. “But even if I enjoyed the thought of removing your weapons, I swear to you upon my father’s _grave_ that I _never_ wanted you to be injured. The thought that it could happen did not even occur to me. At least, I thought that if it happened, it would not be serious and you would recover.”

“It disturbed you when you thought I was dead? Did you blame yourself?”

“Yes.” Graciela’s voice was soft now, barely heard above the bumping carriage and the pounding rain. But it grew louder as she continued, “Yes! _Yes!_ I knew what happened was my fault. And it was as though you died twice. After I came back and saw you at death’s threshold, I heard nothing more of you. But I was sure you couldn’t have survived long after that. I hated what you did to your life. But . . . some part of me . . . hated what _I_ did to you as well.”

Emil gazed at her, not speaking. “. . . It feels like you mean it.”

“I _do_ mean it. Every word!”

Emil drew a heavy breath. “. . . You know, I could have had you killed after you saw the weapons that night. It would have been an impersonal decision, based on what I knew of your values and what I knew would likely happen eventually.”

Graciela stared at him. “You expected a betrayal and you still did nothing?”

Emil’s eyes flickered with something unrecognizable. “I expected it, yes. But there was a part of me that hoped I was wrong.”

The next question was far harder to ask than Graciela thought it would be. “. . . Have you ever killed before, for that reason?”

“I don’t murder people in cold blood. I’ve had them beaten up, and they’re generally scared into silence from that, but I’ve only killed when someone has actively tried to take away what’s mine.” His lip curled in an ironic smirk. “I do fight for the only cause I believe in—myself. And by extension, my business.”

“I know.” Graciela sighed, sadly. “I simply find it regrettable that you have nothing else to align yourself with. No one can live separated from all others forever.”

“No one will live forever, either.”

“No. But you were given a second chance.”

“And what is it you want me to do with it? Join your little rebellion and end up dying for real on some battlefield?!”

“I want you to become a better person!” Graciela shot back. “If it’s even possible.”

“And what if I don’t want to change?”

“Then a second chance was wasted on you!”

Emil’s eyes flickered again, but not skipping a beat, he continued, “Look, Graciela, I am not Davy Crockett. Oh, don’t think I don’t know how you’ve been comparing me to him. It’s quite obvious. Well, I’m sorry your precious Crockett isn’t around to comfort you, but there’s only me. _Me,_ Emil Sande!” He jabbed himself in the chest with his finger. “And you’re going to have to accept that!”

“I _have_ accepted it!” Graciela snapped. “I have to accept it every day! And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry I’m not him? Sorry I didn’t die? Oh wait, sorry I didn’t die instead of him?!”

Graciela stared at him, overwhelmed by the flood of queries. “I’m sorry you’re not more like him,” she retorted. “You would be happier.”

“Happier?! Ha!”

“But _no, **no,**_ for the love of all that is holy, I am not sorry you did not die! And I’m not sorry that you . . .” She trailed off.

Emil smirked darkly. “You can’t say it, can you?”

Graciela could not look at him. Her stomach had twisted in a most ill manner.

“You knew Crockett for how long?” Emil prompted. “A couple of days? Half a week? A week? And you’re so sure of everything he was and everything he stood for.

“You only knew me for two days when we were children. You thought you knew who I was. But when you saw me again, that view was challenged.”

Graciela did not answer. He was right, of course. Had she just been foolishly idealistic both times? Emil was nothing like she remembered. What if Davy wouldn’t be, either, if she were to see him again?

As the carriage pulled up in front of her house, she climbed down in spite of the rain. Gathering as many packages as she could carry, she stepped back. “Thank you for the ride home, Señor Sande,” she said, her voice cool and aloof. “Although I can’t begin to imagine why you offered it. If you will wait, I will remove all of my belongings. You won’t have to inconvenience yourself by getting out in the rain.”

Emil watched her hasten up the stairs and to her door. He was surprised by her sudden change of mood. Emotions had been running high for them both. Cursing in his mind, he started to climb out of the carriage. “Go find some shelter at the livery stable for you and the horses, José. I’ll take up the rest and come for you later.” He all but barked the command.

José turned in surprise, watching him collect the rest of the packages. “Si, Señor,” he managed to reply.

Emil stormed up the hard steps, the boxes clutched in his hands. He nearly crashed into Graciela returning for them. He moved back and held out his arms. “Here.”

Her eyes widened. Slowly she accepted her belongings, but not without bewilderment. “Did I guilt you into coming up?” she wanted to know.

“No! . . . I don’t know.” Emil threw up his hands when they were free.

Graciela sighed. “. . . You’re already soaked through. Come in and warm yourself for a moment.” She stepped through the doorway. After a hesitation, Emil followed.

Setting the packages on the table, Graciela crossed to the fireplace and bent down to start the blaze. “We could both benefit from this now,” she said.

Emil shut the door in discomfort. “I shouldn’t stay,” he said. “José is still outside, waiting for me.”

Graciela straightened. “So you are concerned about him?” The spreading firelight cast shadows around the room and across her face.

“There’s no sense in him coming down ill.”

She frowned at his stilted voice. “Is that what everything is always about to you? Sense? Logic?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t care about those things too,” Emil retorted. “You feel it’s logical that Texas be free of Mexican rule. Crockett felt it was logical to go to the Alamo and withstand a fall for thirteen days before General Santa Anna’s army killed him and his band of followers. It doesn’t make sense to me, but as you see it, it does.”

“Yes, it does,” Graciela answered. “But it isn’t just because of logic. I love Texas. I want her to be free because that is how I believe she will truly flourish. I want her to be free because that is how I believe the _people_ will truly flourish. I love the people. I want them to be happy.”

She stepped closer to him. “And you? Do you even know what it is to love? Can a cold, ruthless heart such as yours even comprehend the word, the concept? Or do you only think of love of self, of money? I don’t understand you in the least. Sometimes you are such a mass of contradictions.”

“. . . Even I once experienced the true love of a mother, a father. Of friends.” Emil was quiet now. “The world was big and new and I was innocent, knowing nothing of its problems.

“You remember that when we stopped here, we were on our way to a new life in the West.”

“Yes.” Graciela was quiet now as well. Something in him was opening up again. She had only seen this side of him since his recovery, and even at that, only rarely.

Emil turned away, walking towards the fire. “There were other people traveling with us, people we believed were our friends. But they wanted my father’s accumulated wealth and nothing more.” Gripping the mantle with one hand, he looked back to her. “Eventually they murdered my father in cold blood. My mother too, when she tried to stop them. And they left me for dead.”

Graciela could not hold back the gasp of shocked, disbelieving horror. “You were only a child.”

“Not after that.” Emil’s voice was hard. She imagined his eyes were too.

She stood where she was, frozen to the floor. “How did you even survive?”

“I don’t really remember. Everything about my injuries then is a blur. But I survived and returned to civilization with one important thing—my father’s business knowledge. I became a merchant, as he had been. Only I vowed never to trust anyone claiming to be a friend or an ally.”

“. . . And you never did again?”

“I shouldn’t have. There was still some of that foolish, childish naïveté in my brain. A couple more times, people managed to get under my skin, claiming to be friendly. They had to work much harder at it. And when I let them in at last, they nearly took away everything _I’d_ worked so hard to earn.”

He looked at her in the shadows cast by the firelight. “I thought you were different, Graciela. Apparently I was still a fool in spite of everything else. And it’s true that I don’t think you would deliberately try to worm your way into my or anyone else’s heart for an ulterior motive. That wouldn’t be like you.

“But you have the same capacity for betrayal as everyone else. And you use it. Can you really fault me for doing likewise?”

Graciela looked down. “. . . It’s still different,” she said. “Can it be considered a betrayal as deep and harsh if neither party trusts or cares about the other? In the past, you honestly cared about people and they turned against you. But in this instance, you never cared for me and I never cared for you. Not since your return.”

Emil looked at her for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “I suppose not.”

But there was a chill in the room, despite the fire. Graciela shivered.

Emil walked past her, heading for the door. “I’m warm enough now; thank you for the invitation. Goodbye, Graciela.”

Graciela stared after him, her mind as blank as when he had tried to kiss her. But as he stepped back into the rain, pulling the door shut after him, she snapped to herself. She ran forward, hauling the door open again. “Wait!” she called, desperate to be heard over the rain.

There was no sign of him and he did not answer. Abandoning all sense, she ran back into the rain and stared over the balcony. He was below, walking away from the building. And to her shock, the carriage was not there. But he seemed to know exactly where to go to seek it out.

Almost as though he had directed it elsewhere. . . .

She turned away, her sopped hair clinging to her face and neck. Had he lied about José being out there, waiting? Had he known José had gone for shelter?

Why had he lied?

Was it that his only reason for talking with her whenever they met, that he was seeking her feelings concerning her betrayal, as he had indicated? And that, now satisfied of her indifference as well as his, he would never talk with her again?

He had seemed so different tonight, so angry and upset, and last of all, weary and tired. And his “Goodbye” had seemed so final.

Had he only sought confirmation of _her_ indifference, while he felt nowhere near the same on the matter?

Was it possible . . . at all conceivable . . . that he _did_ care? That he _could_ care? Did she _want_ his caring even if he could and did?

She did not try to pursue him or call him back. She did not know what she would say if she got him to return. Instead she walked slowly across the veranda and through the door into the house. She shut it behind her, leaning against it as she stared across the room to the fire.

It was better this way, she told herself. She still despised him. He was still the same man as before.

Was he really? Or had he been slowly trying to change, uncertain of what to do or how to go about it? Had he reached out to her more than once, seeking help and guidance, and she had not understood, instead pushing him away?

A hand flew to her mouth. So many things he had said over their past meetings were now taking on whole new meanings. She had overlooked all of it, focusing instead on his faults and what aggravated her so much about him.

And tonight he had opened up to her, finally telling her of the horror that was his past. What were the odds that he had ever revealed it to anyone else, except perhaps the people he had thought were his friends who had turned against him?

 _I don’t love him,_ she told herself. _And I am certain he does not love me. But if he cares even a little. . . ._

She trailed off. She should have tried to help him, to find out what he really wanted.

She looked down, blinking away the drops of rain falling out of her hair and into her eyes.

The room felt so empty right now.


	5. Winter is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emil is in a bad mood when he leaves Graciela's.

Emil was not in a good mood when he entered the livery stable to retrieve José and the carriage. It was instantly obvious.

Concerned, José looked to him as he propped open the heavy door and gestured for José to move the carriage outside. “The talk with the Señora did not go well, Señor Sande?”

“It went about as I expected it would,” growled Emil. “No questions, José. Just take me home.”

“Si, Señor. Home.” José had learned from long experience that Emil in a bad mood was not someone to cross. He snapped the lines, directing the horses out of the stable. Once Emil had the door shut after them, he climbed into the carriage.

José kept silent as he drove. Emil was very aware that José had likely heard much of their argument in the carriage, even over the rain and the wheels and the horses’ hooves, but he said nothing. He knew José would never reveal what he knew to anyone else. José would be too afraid.

When at last they arrived at Emil’s home outside the main part of town, he stepped down and tossed a coin to José in payment. “Keep whatever’s left over,” he said. “If anything.”

José stared at the coin piece. It was far more than what was owed. That was most unlike Emil; he was often miserly with his fortune. “But Señor . . .”

“Nevermind.” Emil waved him off as he headed towards the house.

José swallowed hard, placing the coin in his pocket. He would not argue. But for the time being, he would not spend this, either, just in case Emil wanted his change when he came back to his senses.

****

One of the maids stood, gaping, as Emil entered. “Señor Sande!” she exclaimed. “You’re soaked through to the bone!”

“I’m going to change, Anna-Lisa,” Emil said, shaking the water off his hat and into the fire. “When I’m ready, I’ll have you take these things and place them in front of the fire.”

“Si, Señor,” Anna-Lisa nodded. Her eyes were full of questions, but she did not dare ask a one.

Emil grabbed a towel from the linen closet before he entered his room and shut the door. Lighting some of the candles to see by, he began peeling off the rain-drenched clothing and furiously drying himself off before grabbing clean, dry clothes.

The sight of the pulled skin in the mirror gave him pause when he was going to button a fresh shirt. He straightened, staring for a long moment at the ugly scar on his chest. Slowly he ran his fingers over the mark, several inches in length.

It was still reddish, but he supposed over time it would fade to a dull white. Yet no matter the color, it would still be there, reminding him of that moment and all the moments that had come afterward.

He flinched and drew back at the memory of the blade flying through the air, embedding itself in his chest. Clutching the spot, he sank onto the bed, shaking and trembling. His hair, slightly damp but having been mostly protected by the hat, fell into his eyes.

The last thing he could clearly recall from that night was falling back in agony, firing both of his guns harmlessly into the air. Then he had hit the floor and passed out of all thought and mind. He had been sure he was dead.

He only had vague memories of the days that had followed. He had some faint recollection of Paco kneeling beside him, asking if he was alive and sounding frightened. There were nameless, faceless people who had floated in and out of his blurred vision, tending to the wound and trying to elicit a response from him.

He remembered having enough presence of mind to think about Graciela and her property and ask for someone to get her. He had called for her, half-crazed from the delirium and fever brought on by the knife attack. A messenger had been sent up North to find her before the word had come down that she had returned to San Antonio.

He could bring to mind snatches of their conversation when she at last had come. Then the conscious delirium had ended, plunging him into that even stranger state of unconscious delirium and continually conversing with a nonexistent ghost.

 _“Nonexistent?!”_ he remembered Crockett exclaiming in indignation when Emil had snarled it at him. _“I’m just as real as you.”_

For that matter, by that time Emil had not been sure of how real _he_ was either, so he had dropped the subject.

And then he had emerged from the coma, to everyone’s collective shock, and had begun to get better.

But had he really?

The memories of the attack and the pain still hounded him. He hated thinking about it or talking about it when he was awake, so it had to find another outlet to torment him. Sometimes he awakened from nightmares of it happening again. He would feel the knife once again plunging into him—the bursting agony, the flying blood, the coppery gasp in his throat. . . . He would leap awake, his eyes wild, nearly falling off the bed. Sometimes he screamed, frightening the servants and sending them running into his room.

He was bitter and angry over the fact that it had happened. He blamed Crockett, he blamed Bowie, and . . . yes, he blamed Graciela too.

He had told the truth tonight, that he had wondered exactly what her motivations had been in revealing the location of the weaponry. And he had tried to deduce the answer during their strange and recurring meetings. Well, why not? He had to make some use of them.

But he had not revealed any of that before. What had prompted it now?

He ran his hands through his hair. Maybe it was the particularly realistic nightmare he had woken up from the past night. Everything had played out the same for the most part, but instead of Crockett it was Graciela who threw the knife and nearly killed him.

That had badly shaken him.

Of course, it was just subconscious nonsense, his feelings of betrayal towards Graciela coming out through the dream. But none of it would have happened if not for her. She had symbolically thrown the knife.

 _“You know, I never realized how well that knife would work,”_ Crockett had said during one of their unwelcome rendezvous. _“I really, honestly thought you were dead. If I’d known you weren’t, I would’ve seen you got help.”_

Emil had shrugged it off in annoyance. _“I didn’t need your help,”_ he had retorted. _“Paco was there.”_

 _“And I’m sorry he had to see that, too,”_ Crockett had immediately answered. _“It must’ve been terrible for someone his age.”_

 _“It wasn’t so great for someone **my** age, either,”_ Emil had growled.

During his recovery period, he had been a difficult and bitter patient. He was not quite sure when his suspicious feelings had begun to fade, only that gradually, as his caregivers had continued to show him kindness in spite of his demands and fits, he had begun to realize that they truly did want to help him. And that in turn had softened his responses to them.

 _“You are not the same man you were before this, my son,”_ Father Fuentes had told him when he had recovered enough to stagger around the house.

 _“And how would you know, Father?”_ Emil had retorted. _“No one knows who I am.”_

 _“I have been in San Antonio ever since you came in a rich man and set up your shop and trading post,”_ was the reply. _“A large part of my business is observing people. You were a hateful man. Oh, you tried to hide it behind your facades, but I soon saw beyond those. You despised the world because you felt it despised you. I no longer sense that from you, Emil.”_

 _“Well.”_ Emil had paused, carefully pulling on his coat. _“Maybe closer to the truth would be that I don’t know **how** to feel anymore, Father. I know what I experienced. I know that time and again people were cruel to each other, and to me, even after professing good will._

_“But I also remember the love I felt as a child, unconditional and unyielding. While I’ve been looked after these last weeks, I . . . I felt that again. It reawakened something in me that I thought was dead. Now I’m just confused.”_

_“A good man never dies, Emil. He hibernates, perhaps, but never dies. He is always there, alive under the ice and snow of cruel experience. No one can say when his winter will end and he will revive. But sooner or later, it happens.”_

_“You’re very optimistic, Father. I might even say idealistic. It isn’t a realistic point of view.”_

_“Still blunt.”_ Father Fuentes had shaken his head in some amusement. _“Look at yourself, Emil. Take a good, long look. Now that this side of you has been reawakened, can you go back to what you were before? Would you want to?”_

 _“. . . No,”_ Emil had been forced to admit. _“But . . . I don’t want to trust people again. Alright, so there are still kind people in the world. The cruel and the merciless still exist as well. I never want to forget that. I never want to be hurt by them again.”_

A gentle hand had been placed on his shoulder. _“I can’t promise that to care about others won’t bring pain sometimes. You already know that too well. But your experiences have given you a highly developed sense of judgment. If you pay attention to it, you may find it easier to determine the good from the bad.”_

Emil had nodded slowly, not convinced but willing to try.

He was still so conflicted. And on the matter of Graciela, well . . . he did not even like to go there. Did he care about her or didn’t he? She certainly believed he did not and never had. That sounded logical to him, except for the questions that had been nagging at him the last few days.

He got up, shuffling to the door and opening it. Wandering into the hall, he made his way back to the living room, where he sank into a chair near the fire. He stared blankly into the crackling and jumping blaze, his thoughts continuing to travel.

“Señor Sande?”

He started violently and looked up. Anna-Lisa was standing near him, both hesitant and awkward. “You didn’t call me yet, Señor. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“Hmm? Oh. Oh, the clothes, yes.” Emil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go ahead and get them. And bring me some brandy, if you please.”

“Si, Señor.”

Ten minutes later Emil was pouring the brandy, still gazing into the fire as he downed it.

Would he encounter Graciela again? Judging from their bizarre track record, it looked likely. But would they have an actual conversation? Or would he or she say something aloof and cool and sever their ties as quickly as possible?

He was not sure what he would do. And as for Graciela, well, she would likely want to stay as far away from him as possible. These repeat meetings were bewildering and uncomfortable. He had to wonder if Crockett was laughing over his befuddlement at their existence.

Then again, Crockett was probably mostly highly displeased over their existence. He had wanted Emil to leave Graciela alone.

Although that was not exactly what he had said. He had said not to give her any more trouble. But he would probably consider just talking with her “giving her trouble”.

Bah, now he was talking as though Crockett’s ghost was real. Maybe brandy was what he _didn’t_ need tonight.

He set the glass aside and propped himself up on his elbow, staring into the flames. Either it was trance-inducing or he was ungodly tired; he was asleep before he was quite aware of it.

Paco slipped into the room soon after. He stood gazing at his employer in wonder. Emil had never treated him cruelly, but he could be a stern boss. Sometimes Paco was afraid of him. And even while asleep, he did not look peaceful. Paco was not sure he ever had.

He took up the old blanket from the couch and crossed to the chair, making certain to remain quiet as he draped it along the exhausted man’s body.

A shiver ran up his spine as he caught sight of the scar through the half-buttoned shirt.

****

Emil was feeling better by morning. At least enough so that he headed off to town and the shop.

The sun was out off and on through the clouds, but it could not seem to stay in place long enough to dry the many puddles adorning the ground. Emil remained in the middle of the carriage seat, as far away from any possible splashes as he could be.

He raised a surprised eyebrow when they stopped in front of the shop. Someone was standing near the door, anxious, a dark scarf concealing her identity. But he did not need to see her face to know. He climbed out of the carriage, amazed. “Graciela?”

She looked up at him. “I need to speak with you,” she said. Between her bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them, she looked exhausted.

Emil tossed a coin to the driver. “Come inside then,” he said. He unlocked the door and allowed her to step in before immediately following.

Locks were uncommon in the town. Emil’s usage of them was one more indication of his cynical, suspicious nature. And the thieves he had tangled with had proved that it was not unfounded.

He slipped the key into his pocket after locking the door behind them. “Alright. What is it you wish to say?”

Graciela slowly walked ahead of him, gazing at the items in the shop without really seeing them. “I was awake all night,” she said.

“Well, I’m sorry if I had anything to do with that,” Emil rejoined. His tone was only half-serious. He was back to his usual mood—or at least, the usual cover.

“You had everything to do with that.” Seemingly unaffected by his light tone, Graciela ran her hand over the glass countertop. “I realized many things. You were right.”

“I was? About what?” Emil came closer to her, honestly amazed and perplexed by this visit and these words. Graciela was a proud woman. Not just that, she was a proud woman who detested him. It took a lot for her to say this.

She looked up at him, her eyes clearly displaying her regret over what she had learned about herself. “I have continued to resent that you survived and not Davy. I’m ashamed of this. And I know Davy would never want me to feel that way.”

Emil shrugged. “It’s understandable. You liked Crockett, while you abhor me. Why wouldn’t you resent that I survived?”

“I should have gotten over it.” Graciela shook her head. “And you were right that I have been comparing you to Davy. I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t help myself. You are all that is left of the people I closely associated with. I long for you to be different, but in the end that’s more because of me than you. You are what you are. I have to accept that and move forward.”

“I’m sorry.” Emil was completely serious now. Graciela was being honest and not snarling at him. The least he could do was sober up.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Graciela raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“I’m sorry that there isn’t someone else who survived besides me, someone you wouldn’t resent.” Emil gestured to the door. “There’s no reason why we have to keep associating, even though we have been thrown into several unplanned encounters together. You can feel free to move forward, Graciela. Don’t stay in the past with me just because I’m the only one left.”

Graciela stayed where she was. “Tell me honestly,” she requested. “Do you care for me at all?”

Emil stared at her. He turned away, agitated as he began to pace the floor.

“I can’t answer that,” he said. “I don’t know. I haven’t allowed myself to care about anyone in so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like. And yet . . .” He paused. “. . . Part of me seems to think that maybe I _have_ cared about you.”

Graciela frowned. “You have strange ways of showing it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m _not_ sure of how I truly feel.” Emil stared into the distance, collecting his thoughts, before looking back to her again. “Did it ever dawn on you to wonder what was in it for me if we were married? I already legally owned your property.”

Graciela’s gaze flickered away. “I assumed you wanted the elevated status you would receive if you married into an important family.”

“And I can’t say that wasn’t true. It sounds like me. But . . . nevertheless, I also still can’t say that’s what I had in mind.”

“And what can you say you might have had in mind?”

This was probably the most bizarre and awkward conversation in which they had ever engaged. Emil was finding it difficult to gather his words into the proper, sensible order.

“. . . I think that, perhaps, I didn’t want to lose you,” he said at last. “You despise me; I knew you’d never marry me if there wasn’t something else in it for you. Selfish, I know, but . . . well, that’s something else I learned to survive.

“And I think that’s why Crockett and I hit it off so badly. If he hadn’t shown an interest in you, he would have only been a mild irritation to me. I wouldn’t have sent my men to beat him up. And he wouldn’t still annoy me so much now.”

Graciela looked down. “And if he hadn’t shown that interest, I wouldn’t have betrayed you by telling about the weapon stock.”

“That too.”

Graciela considered all of the above and looked up again, tilting her head to the side. “It’s strange,” she mused.

“What is?”

“If it hadn’t been for all of that, I am not sure we would be having this conversation. You have been changing ever since you were wounded. It’s been subtle at times, but very much there.”

Emil felt uncomfortable. “I’ve been told that by others, too.”

“There is at least some part of you that is a better person,” Graciela said. “I wouldn’t have realized that if we hadn’t had these unplanned encounters. Considering all of these things, perhaps Davy did you a favor when he threw that knife.”

Emil stiffened. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Graciela looked into his eyes, amid the surprise and confusion and changing feelings. “And some part of me has started to wonder whether, deep down, I have cared for you in some small way in spite of how I’ve reviled you.”

“. . . Have you?”

“I don’t know.” Graciela stepped closer to him. “What you were trying to do when we met after that rally. Will you try that again?”

“You want me to?” Emil was in disbelief.

“I want to see if I find it as detestable as I did then,” Graciela said.

“And you won’t push me away in a fit of screaming?” Emil said with a slight smirk.

“That would depend on if you are a gentleman about it, as you claim to be,” Graciela answered.

The banter felt oddly natural. Emil drew her close and leaned down, pressing his lips against hers. This time she did not refuse him, although she also did not return the kiss.

He pulled back after a moment. “Well?”

She nodded slowly. “You can be a gentleman.” She hesitated. “It wasn’t thoroughly repulsive.”

“At least that’s something,” Emil quipped. Growing serious, he continued, “. . . I remember what you said to Crockett when he wondered if he should throw me out of your house. You told him you weren’t in any danger.”

“I did,” Graciela agreed. “I knew you wouldn’t harm me. At least not physically. I can’t say that what you did with my land, and how you tried to manipulate me into marriage, wasn’t hurtful.”

“It won’t happen again.”

A slight smile crept over Graciela’s features. “In the past, I wouldn’t have believed you. But now . . .” She nodded, half to herself. “Now I think I do.”

“I’m glad.” Emil folded his arms. “So, what should we do if we continue to run into each other at odd and varied times?”

“Take it as it comes, I suppose,” Graciela said. “Are you saying we will only meet by accident?”

“Unless you want to meet on purpose,” Emil returned.

“I don’t know what I want.” Graciela walked away from him, gazing out the window. “However, I think I would feel at least somewhat melancholy if we no longer encountered each other.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Emil came up behind her. “If we don’t meet by accident, I guess we could decide to then meet on purpose.”

“I guess,” Graciela agreed.

Emil held out his hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

Graciela blinked. “Is it a business deal?”

“More of a . . . shall we say, a deal based on the honor of those making it.”

Graciela was amused in spite of herself. “Alright.” She turned to face him, taking his hand. It was stronger than she had pictured. She gave it a firm shake. “It’s settled.”


	6. Scene Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this whole story last year on Livejournal. I rarely sign into this website, but upon seeing there has been some level of interest in this piece, I decided to post another chapter or so and maybe eventually get the whole thing up here. I had a blast writing it.

Graciela was sitting at a table in the cantina with a drink and a series of scattered notes. Every now and then she reached over with her quill pen, scratching in an addition to one of them.

“Well, Graciela. Planning your next mode of attack on General Santa Anna’s supporters?”

She glanced up at Emil’s smooth voice, not entirely sure whether he was mocking or serious. He was wandering over to her table, drink in hand.

“I suppose you could put it that way if you want,” she said. “Does that mean I am attacking you?”

Emil shrugged and sat down across from her. “He doesn’t seem to have won.”

“Indeed not. He’s being taken to Washington now that he has been defeated. But there are still those who support his cause. There are even still some skirmishes being fought across Texas.”

“I believe I said I would join whoever was victorious in the war.”

Graciela sighed. “You did. And that is still your plan?”

“Most likely.” Emil took a sip of the drink.

Graciela replaced the quill in the inkwell. “I still don’t understand. Why do you have no real interest in the Texas government? It affects all who live here.”

“Dear lady, if it truly affected me, I would be interested,” Emil said. “The fact is, my situation remains the same no matter who is in power. And that is why I don’t particularly care one way or the other.”

“Then you mean to say that if the government suddenly passed legislation that negatively impacted your business, you would fight against it,” Graciela said. “But not at any other time.”

“That is what I mean to say,” Emil agreed.

Exasperated, Graciela raised her hands in the air before dropping them onto the pages. “You still look out only for yourself.”

Emil’s eyes flickered and he looked away. “Yes.”

“It isn’t like you to feel cornered and ashamed of it,” Graciela noted. “What if legislation was passed against the people who helped you when you were wounded?”

“I’m not ashamed,” Emil countered. “And what legislation could possibly be passed against them?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Graciela said. “Just for the sake of discussion, suppose something was. What would you do about it? Would you do nothing to help them, even after they spared your life and nursed you back to health?”

Emil leaned back in the chair. “You ask an unfair question. I don’t know the answer. But anyway, I doubt one more person could make much of a difference.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Graciela protested. “Each person makes a difference. And you are very influential. You know many powerful people. If you aligned one way, it might convince countless others to do the same.”

“Perhaps,” Emil mused. “But what if they followed my example because they were feeling mercenary? You wouldn’t want that, I’m sure, even if they were supporting your cause.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Graciela sighed in resignation. “They would turn their backs on the cause if ever it did not fit with their own desires.”

“Then that brings us right back to the same dilemma, doesn’t it,” Emil remarked.

She shook her head. “Regardless of who might follow your example and why, I would hope you would wish to help the people who helped you.”

Emil smiled. “Even if I did not believe in the cause and was only doing it to repay them?”

Graciela gave him a long look. “No,” she conceded. “Not then.”

“I’m sorry, Graciela, I’m afraid it’s a lost cause,” Emil said. “You want me to find some sort of foundation or root for something other than myself. And even though you want me simply to believe in some point-of-view instead of just the money, you hope I would pick your side. But since I don’t believe in any point-of-view, you don’t want me to be untrue to myself, either.”

Graciela exhaled, wearily. “I just wonder what it would take for you to find something to fight for other than yourself. If you believed in values for everyone and not just for you, then I believe you would take a stand.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Emil finished the drink. “Well, maybe I would. But I would also have to believe that something would actually get done and that it would be worth the time spent.”

“By that logic, you must have no trouble believing that your demands will be met,” Graciela observed.

“No, I don’t,” Emil said, toasting her with the empty glass. “Someone such as myself knows how to manipulate the system to have their demands met. Besides . . .” He set the glass down. “This way I only have to concern myself with the possibility of letting myself down, instead of Heaven knows how many other people too.”

Although he still spoke in a light tone, it sounded to Graciela as though there was an undercurrent of bitterness in his words. She frowned, studying him as her thoughts whirled. Was it possible that he blamed himself at least somewhat for his parents’ deaths? Perhaps he thought he should have spied the fraud perpetrated by the other members of their party. Or perhaps that he should have been able to defend them against their betrayers.

And perhaps he sensed that she wanted to ask him about that. “Coming to think of it, do you practice what you preach?” he wondered, changing the subject. “You were willing to marry me solely to retrieve some of your land. Would you call that being true to yourself?”

Graciela looked down. “. . . In one way, no,” she said. “But in another . . . I could have never been at peace had I not tried every path open to me to regain what should be mine.”

“Then I have to wonder again—are we truly so different?” Emil looked thoughtful. “We’re both just trying to survive in a cruel and unforgiving world.”

“Perhaps,” Graciela agreed. “But my decision would have only hurt me. Your decisions, especially taking weapons to Santa Anna, could have hurt many people.”

“Although, actually, any weapons dealer runs into that dilemma,” Emil said. “Surely you don’t believe they should stop selling weapons because of it. Then your side wouldn’t have any, either. So ultimately it comes down to what’s in the dealers’ hearts.”

“. . . If you put it that way, then yes,” Graciela said.

“You know, it amazes me that we’re having a relatively civil conversation,” Emil said. “Ordinarily it seems this topic would have escalated into an argument and you swearing at me in your native tongue.”

Graciela averted her gaze. “It amazes me too,” she had to confess.

For some reason, Emil was not angering her today. Exasperating her, perhaps, and wearying her, maybe, but not angering. And the conversation itself was stimulating. She had never really debated like this before, except with hecklers just trying to make her angry, as Emil had told her she would encounter. And by contrast, Emil just seemed to want to talk.

Perhaps too, knowing that he was not the same man he had been and that he was trying to change in at least some ways, made a difference in her attitude.

She was seeing him with completely new eyes, really. What he was saying to her now was not so different from the arguments he had made at the rally. But she was not blinded by fury as she had been then.

“. . . What have you been doing today?” she queried at last. “You seem in good spirits.”

“I admit it, I am,” Emil said. “I closed a very profitable business deal.”

Graciela raised an eyebrow. “A legal one? Or do I not want to know that?”

“There isn’t anything out of sorts about it,” Emil said. “Don’t worry, Graciela.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Graciela returned, “unless it somehow involved myself or other upright citizens.”

“It’s perfectly upright.” Emil summoned the waitress and ordered another drink. Graciela silently observed.

“. . . Do I know this outstanding person?” she wondered when the waitress left.

“No,” Emil said. “I would doubt it, anyway; he’s not from around here.”

“Can you be sure he isn’t cheating you?” Graciela asked. “Since you seem so concerned about such things.”

“He wouldn’t cheat me,” Emil said. “But I do have a man watching him, just in case.”

Graciela shook her head. “I thought as much. Do you trust anyone?”

“Completely? No, I don’t believe so. Giving your full trust to anyone is a foolish move that will only backfire on you eventually.”

“Even, perhaps, to the people who aided you?”

Emil sighed, a bit of his cheer fading. “You keep coming back to that.”

“Because it’s a pivotal point in your life,” Graciela said. “It’s defined who you have become now.”

“Well, I can’t deny that.” The waitress brought the drink and Emil smiled and thanked her. When she left, he took the glass and stared at it for a moment, uncertain, thoughtful. “I haven’t believed in giving my full trust to anyone in years.”

“You’ve opened parts of yourself to certain people, even to me,” Graciela pointed out.

“And look where it got me.” Emil touched the spot on his chest where she assumed he had been wounded. She looked away. “There are two lessons I should have learned when my parents were murdered—hope and trust are false friends that should be abandoned. They only bring pain and sorrow and death.”

Slowly she raised her gaze to meet his. “. . . You say you should have learned them,” she prompted.

“If I had, I don’t suppose I would have been deceived by others in the succeeding years.” Emil took a sip of the drink and absently swirled the liquid around in the glass. “Alas, in spite of myself, some part of me continued to believe in the good side of human nature.”

“And what about now?” Graciela asked. “Has your faith been affirmed at all?”

“There are still good people in the world,” Emil said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to trust them with everything about me.” He leaned back. “Does anyone ever trust that much? Don’t we all select certain parts of our personalities to emphasize depending on whom we’re with? And no one person ever sees all sides of us?”

“In a marriage, the two parties see each other in every conceivable circumstance, good and bad,” Graciela said.

“There are plenty of marriages where at least one spouse keeps their secrets from the other,” Emil said.

Graciela looked at him. “You know of my own short-lived marriage. What about you? Were you ever married?”

Emil found the drink most interesting to look at. “I almost was, once,” he said. “But that was a long time ago. It’s of little consequence now.”

“What happened?” Graciela found she honestly wanted to know.

Emil shrugged. “Oh . . . the girl’s father didn’t like me.”

“Did he have reason not to?”

“I was a great deal younger then, and far more naïve and trusting. But I was also developing my own business methods.”

“What you are saying is that you were becoming the ruthless character I came to despise.”

“If you want to put it that way. But that wasn’t even the problem.”

Graciela quirked an eyebrow. “And what was?”

“He thought I wasn’t making enough money to properly support his daughter,” Emil smirked. “You know, if anything, he encouraged me to be more ruthless. But nothing was ever good enough for him.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“Eventually she married some stuffy man her father liked and set her up with,” Emil said. “But I haven’t seen her since long before that.”

Graciela toyed with the edges of the pages. “Do you regret it?”

“Not really. With her overbearing father always hovering over our shoulders, life would have just been miserable.”

“And you’ve never been seriously involved with anyone since then.”

“Seriously involved?” Emil echoed, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Why no.”

Graciela gave him a withering look. “So you’ve played with hearts in addition to your many other sins?”

“. . . I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“And how would you put it?”

Emil spread his hands in front of him. “The girls I associated with didn’t have anything serious in mind themselves.”

Graciela was not convinced. “And you are sure of that?”

“Well . . .” Emil cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Usually. But . . . if some giddy patrons of my wares got the wrong idea when I was congenial to them . . .”

Graciela shut her eyes in exasperation. “Why I am associating with you is beyond my ability to understand.”

“I really couldn’t help what they thought.”

“No, of course not.”

“All I did was to help them find certain items they wanted. If they chose to interpret that as anything more than a merchant seeking happy customers, how could I control that?”

Graciela opened her eyes. “You couldn’t,” she conceded grudgingly. “Unless you saw what was happening and added a bit more of your charm in the hopes of making more sales.”

“Well . . . perhaps.”

Graciela sighed. “You wretched man.”

“No harm was really done,” Emil protested.

“How can you be so sure?” Graciela countered.

“Those girls soon forgot all about their silly infatuation,” Emil said. “It wasn’t long and I saw them swooning over someone else.”

“I hope you didn’t consider that reason why you should continue leading your impressionable young customers on,” Graciela frowned.

“When I thought I could make an easier sale. Oh, come off it, Graciela! Many businessmen do it.”

“Perhaps if they were chased by starry-eyed romantic-hopefuls, they wouldn’t be so willing,” Graciela said.

“Alright, here’s an interesting question,” Emil announced. “Is there any aspect of my business practices that you don’t think is utterly deplorable?”

Graciela allowed herself a small smirk. “Am I allowed time to think on that?”

“If you think you need it,” Emil quipped.

“It may take a while. And I have so much to be working on.” Graciela gestured to the papers on the table.

“Ah yes, your battle plans.” Emil took a half-hearted glance at one of the sheets. “Are you planning to debut this tonight?”

“I’m not certain it will be ready by then,” Graciela replied. “Maybe in a day or so.”

“Don’t forget to let me know when and where. Now I’m curious.” Emil spoke grandly as he pushed the paper aside.

She took it. “Are you planning to heckle again?”

“Why, that depends on if I find I have anything interesting to say,” Emil said.

She looked at him. “I am sure you could always find something.”

Emil finished the drink and stood up. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“If you like.”

Emil touched the brim of his hat. “I do. Well, I’m off to plan more devious deeds. Good afternoon, Graciela.”

“Good afternoon.”

Graciela watched him stroll to the doors and into the street. Then she turned, busying herself with the assorted pages.

It took some time before she realized she was wearing a smile. And although she tried to deny it, she knew full well that it was there because of the scoundrel who had just left.

She leaned back, holding one of the pages to her chest.

Emil was changing, in spite of his jokes and his lack of a foundation and whatever lingering shadiness was still in his heart.

Then again, he was not the only one.

She had been blind before, seeing him only through her anger and grief and not letting herself recognize the good that still existed in him. Now it was all so apparent.

She liked his company, whether or not she would admit it.

“You fool,” she chided herself under her breath. “What would Davy say?”

She paused as the reality hit her. Davy had nothing to say about it now. He was gone. And she herself had said that they had not known each other long. She did not know if she had been in love with him. She was certainly free to make friends with whomever she chose.

It was just that she had never thought she would choose Emil Sande. And maybe she hadn’t; he had seemed to choose her. But she did not repel him. On the contrary, she had agreed to continually run into him on purpose, if they did not meet by accident.

And she could not abandon the feeling that Davy would be shaking his head in disapproval if he knew.

That left her uncomfortable, somewhat.

She gathered her papers and the inkwell, heading for the door. She would finish this at home in the solitude of her father’s study.

Then she could also continue pondering on the matter of her strange feelings towards a man she had detested. She did not detest him anymore, albeit part of her wondered if she still should.

That part never won an argument.

Emil Sande was likely just playing with her as he had played with others. And yet . . . he had admitted that he wondered if he cared about her, and that she might be the reason he and Davy had not gotten along.

Maybe some part of her hoped that they could be friends, as she and Davy had been friends.

Maybe she was just lonely. And, with the realization that Emil was not a complete cad, she had decided he was a suitable means of not being lonely.

She wished she could understand her own feelings. She did not want to lead him on any more than she wanted him to do the same to her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised there has actually been interest in this project. Thank you! I'm so sorry I've been seriously neglecting posting the rest of it here. It's been finished on Livejournal.com for quite some time. I'll try to get the rest posted here soon; I'd say it's about halfway into it.
> 
> By the way, I added an "interlude" piece I wrote following the story's completion, which is meant to take place between chapters 1 and 2. I stuck it at the beginning of the second chapter.

Emil was deep in contemplation. He wandered down the dark streets, not really intent on going anywhere in particular. When he found himself passing the village church, he slowed and looked to it with mixed feelings.

He had been wounded here. He had nearly died in that dark cellar, his lifeblood spilling out over the stone floor. Now the building was back to normal. It did not look like anything unusual had happened there in centuries.

That annoyed him somewhat, for there to not be any indication of what had happened that night. Well, unless the blood was still on the floor, of course. That would be a grisly and most macabre reminder.

“Well, back to the scene of the crime, are we?”

He jumped a mile. “Who’s there?”

“Now, I know you haven’t forgotten me.”

Emil tensed. The voice was too familiar. As the moon shone down, it lit upon a figure leaning against the wall of the church, his arms folded and his legs crossed in a casual manner. The man was clearly translucent.

Emil stumbled, taking a step back. “I’m losing my mind,” he gasped.

“You’re not either,” Davy Crockett’s ghost retorted. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Of course I don’t,” Emil retorted. “How ridiculous.”

“What do you think I am, then?”

“A figment of my imagination,” Emil declared. “I knew I thought that steak at dinner was too rare.”

Crockett sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not a hallucination, Emil,” he protested. “It looks like we’re going to have to go through this all over again, getting you to accept I’m really here.”

“You spoke to me while I was comatose. Yes, yes, I remember.” Emil moved to walk past. “I have no desire to go through that again.”

“I’ll leave you alone. I just want to know what your intentions are with Flaca.”

That stopped Emil in his tracks. He whirled back. “ _That_ is none of your business,” he said, shocked into abandoning all insistence of this discussion being impossible. “You’re no longer among the living. What happens to Graciela doesn’t concern you.”

“Do you think caring about people stops when you’re dead?” Crockett looked regretful. “What a miserable life you’ve led.

“What happens to Flaca _does_ still concern me. And with your reputation, I’d say I’ve got a right to be concerned. You’re not the sort I’d hope she’d want to be around.”

“Oh, she doesn’t want to be around me,” Emil countered. “It’s just that I’m the only person left from her old life. She doesn’t shoo me away because of her nostalgia.” He hoped that no one else would happen by. They might not see Crockett and instead think Emil was addressing the wall.

“She doesn’t shoo you away because she likes you, Friend. After everything you’ve done, she _likes_ you.”

“That’s nonsense. Anyway, if you’re worried I’m going to shatter her heart into countless fragments, you can just stop now. All we are is two people who keep stumbling across each other. Eventually it will stop and we’ll each go our own way.”

“You must not want it to stop, making that pact with Flaca to deliberately look each other up. And she agreed to it without a fuss.”

Emil’s jaw dropped. “How do you know about that?”

“I know about all of your encounters,” Crockett told him. “What I don’t know is what’s going on in your head. And I wish you’d quit being so stubborn and just tell me.”

“Fine! So you want to know the truth?” Emil stepped closer. “I don’t know what’s going on in my mind, either. I don’t know how I feel about Graciela. And she knows that.”

“Alright. Fair enough. May I just humbly request that as soon as you do know, you let her know?”

“It’s a fair request,” Emil said. “Only I don’t fulfill requests from ghosts. Or imaginary visions. I’ll do whatever I please, as I’ve always done. You’d just better hope that what I please is to do as you’ve said.”

Crockett shook his head. “You really are a stubborn one. And you must have some good in you or Flaca wouldn’t give you the time of day. But when you act like this, you remind me of the night we met when we were both on the mortal plane.”

“Some things never change,” Emil declared. With dripping sarcasm he added, “Strangely enough, you’ve been reminding me a great deal of that night, too.”

The heavy doors of the church began to creak open. Emil blinked in surprise. The spectre was gone, just like that. He shook his head. Maybe he really had been seeing things.

“Emil?” Father Fuentes stared in amazement as he stepped outside. “What are you doing here, at this hour?”

Emil certainly had no intention of relating his experience with the supernatural. Instead, he spoke completely casually as he answered, “I was just out for a walk. I hope I didn’t disturb you, Father.”

“No, not at all. Only . . .” Father Fuentes frowned, puzzled. “I was sure I heard what sounded like a conversation out here.”

Emil stiffened. “A conversation? Did you hear multiple voices, Father?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure. Was someone else here?” The man looked up and down the vacant street, of course not seeing a soul.

“. . . I’m not entirely sure, either,” Emil said, not untruthfully.

As Father Fuentes continued to peer into the night, Emil grew somewhat nervous. He thought quickly, hoping for a change of subject. “I was wondering, Father,” he said at last.

“Yes?”

He sounded thoroughly occupied. Emil folded his arms. “Might I perhaps . . . see the cellar?”

That got his attention. Father Fuentes straightened, looking at Emil in amazement. “What?”

Emil sighed, letting his hands drop back to his sides. “I’ve been troubled lately, Father,” he admitted. “I thought maybe, if I saw that spot again and found that there was no trace of what happened to me, it would help. Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous. But . . .”

“Come inside, Emil,” Father Fuentes interrupted. He stepped into the chapel, holding one of the doors open for Emil to walk on in.

“Thank you.” Emil followed suit. Once he was inside, the door was shut behind him.

“What’s been troubling you, my son?” Father Fuentes asked in concern.

“I’m not sure of that, either,” Emil said. “I’ve been confused, restless. Sometimes I . . . I think I see things that aren’t there.”

A glimmer of understanding came into the man’s eyes. “Such as people?”

Embarrassed, yet somewhat relieved to have been found out, Emil nodded. “Yes.”

“So I did hear a conversation outside,” Father Fuentes mused.

“Oh, I had to have been talking to myself,” Emil protested, throwing his hands in the air. “There’s no such thing as . . .”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge,” Father Fuentes cautioned. “It’s a subject that really has no conclusive answer, but there are those who believe the spirits of the dead walk among us.” He took a candelabrum from off the altar. “Come, I’ll take you downstairs.”

Surprised, Emil went with him to the basement door and down the stone steps. The tense, knotted feeling in Emil’s stomach only grew as they came closer to the cellar. He had walked this path with some of his hired men that night. He remembered the voices echoing off the walls, discussing the weapons, excited at the prospect of taking them for the rebellion.

Emil had grown furious. Those weapons were _his._ He had stockpiled them for General Santa Anna. What right did those upstart rebels have to try to take them away from him? How had they even known of the guns’ existence?

Graciela, of course. Graciela was sympathetic to the rebels and had told them. She had betrayed him, just like everyone else had betrayed him.

Emil did not consciously realize it, but his pace had greatly slowed. At the bottom he had stopped short, not crossing into the actual room. Father Fuentes paused, glancing back. “Emil?”

His eyes widened at the sight of Emil’s wide and wild eyes, flushed skin, and the tight grip he had on the wall. He was staring into the room, breathing heavily, as though he were seeing the Devil himself. Father Fuentes was honestly worried.

“Emil.” He touched the younger man’s shoulder.

Emil gave a violent start. He looked to the Father, as though only comprehending now that he was there. “. . . There’s nothing here now,” he rasped. “No weapons, no blood. But I . . . I can still picture it all in my mind, just as it happened then.” He left the stairs, slowly walking into the room. “It was right here that I fell.” He stopped by a spot near another wall. “I thought I was dead. . . .”

Father Fuentes walked over to him. “Emil, did you think you saw a spirit outside the church?” he asked, quietly and kindly.

“. . . Yes,” Emil admitted. “Crockett.”

“. . . Perhaps your experience of being so close to the grave left you with the ability to see spirits, at least at times,” Father Fuentes suggested.

Emil stared in disbelief. “Then . . . you don’t think I’m insane?”

“Not at all,” Father Fuentes assured him. “And it’s no wonder you’ve been unsettled. What happened to you would be enough to upset anyone. Seeing the spirit of the man who nearly caused your death doesn’t seem unusual at all to me.”

Emil paced the cold, stone room. “But is it all in my head or is it real? Why would he be haunting me? Hasn’t he done enough?”

Father Fuentes watched, patiently. “What was it he seemed to want?”

“He . . .” Suddenly Emil went red. This was an area he was not sure he wanted to explore.

“Anything you say is confidential, Emil,” Father Fuentes assured him.

Emil knew that. But it was still uncomfortable to talk about. “. . . He wondered what I plan to do about Graciela,” he mumbled. Louder he said, “He seemed to think there was something going on between us.”

Father Fuentes looked more amused than anything else. “And is there?”

“No!” Emil exclaimed. He started to pace again. “We just happen to run into each other all the time. That’s all.”

“Oh, I see. And Mr. Crockett doesn’t like that?”

“Well . . .” Emil sighed in exasperation. “I don’t suppose he _minds,_ per se, as long as he’s sure I’m not going to hurt her. . . . Oh, what am I talking about?!” He leaned against the wall on an elbow. “I’m talking as though he’s real.”

“You still think he isn’t?”

Emil frowned, looking to Father Fuentes. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Father. You already know I’m not sure I even believe in God.”

“Yes, I know.” Father Fuentes nodded. A certain melancholia had come into his voice now.

“Nevermind that, anyway. It’s not the problem.” Emil turned, heading for the stairs. “I’m done here.”

Father Fuentes trailed behind him as they went up. “Did seeing the cellar help you at all, Emil?”

Emil sighed, absently running his hand along the stone wall for support. “I don’t know. I was hoping that maybe it would lay the ‘ghost’ to rest. So I suppose I won’t know if it worked for who knows how long. The last time I supposedly saw Crockett before tonight was when I was in a complete state of delirium.”

“You mentioned you’d been troubled for a while,” Father Fuentes said. “Is it just because of seeing Davy Crockett’s ghost?”

Emil reached the top and stepped back into the chapel. “For that matter, I suppose I’d have to know why I’ve been seeing his ghost in order to answer that. If it’s all in my head, it must be part of a larger problem.”

“It could be part of a larger problem if he’s really there,” Father Fuentes replied.

Emil raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Any ideas, Father?”

Father Fuentes studied him in the candlelight. “I believe you could answer that question better than I.”

Emil turned away. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“As you wish. But may I suggest that you ponder over it in private?”

“That’s mostly what I do these days,” Emil grumbled. “I ponder over things. I ponder over what happened here and why I was knifed. I ponder over the pain and the anguish and the blood. I ponder over why I didn’t die.” He rubbed his eyes. “I see and experience it again and again in my dreams. I wake up screaming half the time and scare my servants out of their minds.” He rested his arm on the altar. “Frankly, Father, I wonder if I’ll ever be normal again.”

Father Fuentes regarded him kindly. “It’s a frightening thing, to look Death so squarely in the eye. You are by no means the first person to return from such an encounter suffering over the trauma of it. It takes time to heal the spirit, just as it does the body. And spirits are such fragile things. Once damaged, they can take a great deal of time to recover. _But . . ._ ” He set the candelabrum back on the altar. “The good news is, most spirits are able to do so, even if it takes longer than it does to mend flesh and bone.”

“. . . It’s not just what happened to me in the church that’s been torturing me.” Emil spoke quietly now, barely above a whisper.

Father Fuentes perked up in concern. “What do you mean?”

Emil drew a shuddering breath. “That wasn’t the first time I was left for dead somewhere.” He pushed himself away from the altar, walking across the room to the window. He stared out at the lonesome road. “I’ve been thinking about that first time a great deal lately.”

“. . . While you were delirious, you spoke of your parents being murdered,” Father Fuentes prompted. “Is that to what you’re referring?”

“Yes.” Emil looked back, his visage tormented and twisted in the orange glow of the room. “First my father was held at gunpoint, by a man whom he thought was his friend. My mother rushed to try to tackle him, but she was struck and killed by his partner. My father tried to go to her and he was shot. . . .”

He trembled, sinking into the nearest pew. Letting his hat fall back, he ran his hands into his hair.

“I tried to save them both. I knew where my father kept his gun. I went and took it and ran back. I fired at the man who had shot my father. But the second man, the one who’d bludgeoned my mother, struck me on the head. The gun fell from my hands . . . I collapsed. . . . He kept . . . hitting me and hitting me. I remember the blood running down my face and over my eyes. It was so wrong. It was all so _wrong!_ Dear God, I . . .” He shuddered. “I failed. I failed so completely and abominably.

“The worst part is, if I hadn’t attacked them and been hurt myself, I might have been able to save at least my father’s life. He was still alive when I fell. I remember him calling to me. The way he sounded, so pained and horrified, as he helplessly watched me being beaten. . . . That’s never left me.”

Father Fuentes sat on the pew next to him. “There was nothing you could have done to save him, Emil. Such men never would have allowed you to preserve his life.”

“Oh, logically I know that’s probably true,” Emil said. “But . . . once they had his money, surely they could have left us all alone. Maybe I could have saved him. But I was lying unconscious on the floor while he was dying. The only thing I did was to give him a nightmare as the last thing he saw before he died! What could be worse than for a parent to see their child being hurt, with no way to stop it?”

“I can’t think of much worse,” Father Fuentes agreed, quietly. “But at least your father died knowing you were still alive. That surely gave him some level of comfort.”

“He had no way of knowing if I would be able to get help or recover,” Emil countered. “For all he knew, I’d lie there in misery until I died myself.”

He sighed, leaning back on the pew as he stared up the ceiling high above them. “Honestly, Father, if I have to go around seeing spirits, why couldn’t it be those of my family? Why couldn’t I have the assurance that they’re safe and well, if there’s anything to go on to after this life?” He straightened in aggravated disgust. “Instead I’m stuck being hounded by Crockett.”

“I don’t know why,” Father Fuentes said. “But I believe there is a reason. Maybe there’s something you’re expected to take from the experience.”

“I can’t imagine what,” Emil frowned.

“For now, maybe it’s only for God to know. Although I suppose it would be hard for you to believe that, wouldn’t it.”

“It doesn’t seem fair or right to me.” Emil stood. “I feel like I’m being toyed with, that I’m nothing more than a pawn in a sick game. And I don’t appreciate the sense of humor behind it.”

Father Fuentes stood as well. “God doesn’t look upon men in such ways, Emil. If anyone is toying with you, it’s Satan.”

Emil gave a short laugh. “Well, I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, either. Why not? I’m trying to get my life in order. Satan would probably get quite a lot of pleasure out of driving me out of my mind.”

“He doesn’t like to let go of anyone who has been under his thumb,” Father Fuentes said. “But you’re stronger than he is. If you don’t slip back into your old ways, you’ll come out victorious.”

Emil paused, considering that. “Do you believe I can, Father?”

“I believe you _will._ Emil, I’ve rarely known anyone as stubborn and determined as you. When you want something, you make sure you get it. And if you want to triumph here, you’ll make sure you do that, as well.” Father Fuentes regarded him in all compassion. “I only wish you could find it in you to rely on God to help you. You don’t have to do it all yourself. You _shouldn’t_ have to. God wants to help you, Emil.”

“Then I just wonder where He was when my parents were dying,” Emil returned. “I prayed then, Father. I prayed _hard._ And I even had the faith that God would help me save them. You see how well _that_ worked out.”

“I don’t have all the answers, Emil. But your parents’ tragic deaths don’t mean that God didn’t want to help you or them.”

“It’s all part of some larger plan. I know.” Emil adjusted his hat. “Well, thank you for your time, Father. And for the sermon. I really should be going.” He walked up the aisle, heading for the heavy front doors. Just as he reached for the handle, he stopped and looked back.

“. . . Maybe, Father, part of me still wants to believe,” he said, quietly. “Even though I feel I’ve been let down and betrayed too many times. Maybe that’s . . . why I came here tonight, more than any other reason.”

Father Fuentes smiled. “I was hoping you would say that, Emil.”

Emil nodded, a trace of a smile on his own features. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight.”

Father Fuentes watched as Emil hauled open the left door and slipped out into the desert night.

“He’s in an in-between place,” he mused to the sacred building. “He’s not exactly lost, but he hasn’t found himself either. He’s wandering through the mists, desperately calling for help and guidance. He wants to be found.” He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Someday he will realize that he has never been lost to You. Someday he will find his way back.”


End file.
